Morston Marshes

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.