AT DUNWICH

At the pull of each tide,
the oysters coddle their pearls closer
beneath the sanctuary bell.

Echoes toll slowly underwater.
Lawns that became seaweed are
still unsure whether to live or die.

The dead fell with their graveyard.
It wasn't the new start they'd hoped for.
The wise ones nurse their bones; bide.

Penelopeanne Dalgleish