The shifting sands
Call up the memories
Long-buried, in estuarine silt -
The scent of salt-flat samphire,
And drying seaweed
Carry on a tepid breeze,
And I remember that hill;
The place that grew me.
A headland, strong,
Named for a Viking woman;
Her face scarred by the cliffs,
And pockmarked by caves
Where the archaeologists dug,
To reveal ancient bones and flint,
Much older than her name.
How many have been lost
Under these shifting sands?
How many of my memories,
Have died a death here?
There are some things which
Are better left undisturbed.
Hunfrith knows -
But she will not utter a word.