In Mid-Winter: ( The Headland, Hartlepool, December 2025)

In mid- winter, the Headland is a haunted place: 
Where spectral longings hover like wounded angels;
Where soft silence lies as deep as December snow;
Where loneliness hangs, and lingers, like icicles; 
Where nothing happens that has not happened before; 
Where crude, grey- black sea foam licks a pebbled shore; 
Where feral gulls glide over frosted, granite cliffs;
Where straggled strands of green seaweed cling to rock pools; 
Where encrusted, fearful limpets are tightly locked;
Where cracked, coloured shells are crammed with whispered secrets; 
Where bitter winds blow and howl like mad, long- lost souls,;
Where macabre crabs scuttle over old fish bones;
Where life limps along, despite the town's Christmas throng; 
Where there are no flashing lights or seasonal cheers; 
Only slow echoes of ancient murmurs and moans; 
Where mundane clouds drift in ever darkening skies; 
Where pollution turns pure water to inky blue;
Where discarded plastic mocks frayed, once golden, sands; 
Where summer's dreams are buried under cold, hard stones; 
Where spectral longings hover like broken angels; 
Where Time itself seems frozen. And yet, I perceive
Delicate forms foreshadowing spring's awakening, 
As little flowers of sumptuous violet, white
And flesh pink gently stir in salty, withered earth.