Into this muddy coastline 
the North Sea seeps silently 
twice a day 
under the kestrel’s weather eye 

in the growing puddles 
gulls drill the marsh 
for nothing we can see 
or screech their territory 
like fishwives 
from the tops of poles 

even in August 
the sky drowns us 
in small drops 
settling on hair and eyes 
wanting us flying in it 
or grovelling in the ooze 
at the water’s edge 

I died in this country 
and came back 
to pay my debts 
to its wetlands 

something fishes me 
all the way 
back to where it began 

and is beginning again 
down the years 
with a million denials.

Edwin Brock, Morston Marshes