At Silverdale the beach is mostly green.
The edge is splashed by laps of river mud.
Tho sheep now graze where sea-gulls used to scream,
the sun still burns as brightly from above.
The cliffs, once battered by the winter storms
have clumps of growth not poisoned by the salt,
and now there are no sea-shells in the warmth
that wait like fists for tide to bring the cold.
And where we pause and look across the waves
we glimpse the distant smudge of Humphrey Head
where legend tells the last wolf, caught at bay,
was trapped by hunters, met his lonely death.
And we, who are the interlopers here,
think not to swim, can only stand and stare.
17/11/09 First true sonnet written by me!
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