The Losses
The metal detector is an excuse
To come back to the peninsula.
Along high water line is best
And the losses go deeper with every tide.
Lifting his eyes he sees a rusted signpost
Lying at an angle to the horizon
Wedged in rocks, bladderwrack, dulse and kelp.
Far from the shore a herring gull rises.
It is late afternoon and the light is fading.
He breaks a piece off the Yellow Man and feels
The brittle toffee crunch against his teeth.
Thinking of endless days and Yellow Man.
The sun is pale; his thoughts are patterns in time.
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