On these Shores the bones of thought rest,
grinding meanings under canons heal to sand.
Catches in the breeze, fragments the Greeks forgot
or burnt with heretics for insights to grand.
I wander these shores to find somewhere to pray
a space apart, inspired but un-shadowed by fate
a way to the words that dry on my lips like salt spray
and dance away, white chalk foam, across sea grey slate.
It’s only here that the bones become revived.
In my howl to the ocean, the night and the wind.
New flesh wraps old remains, remembering lives lived,
to stalk from the sand to search out dead kin.
Away from the water its whispered poesy has died
In the ruins, let ghosts rhetorically glide.
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