Morston Marshes

Into this muddy coastline the North Sea seeps silently twice a day under the kestrel's weather eye in the growing puddles gulls drill the marsh for nothing we can see or screech their territory like fishwives from the tops of poles even in August the sky drowns us in small drops settling on hair and eyes wanting us flying in it or grovelling in the ooze at the water's edge I died in this country and came back to pay my debts to its wetlands something fishes me all the way back to where it began and is beginning again down the years with a million denials.