the firm damp sand ridges
are nut-brown and lined
with wind-whipped furrows
rooks call from their
grass-tipped summits
but for miles either side
there is no sign of human life
at the tide line
sea-borne spume litters the air
starfish, razor-shells, clams
bladder wrack and
purple hearted jelly fish
covered in leaping sand-hoppers
form a border that curves away
towards Liverpool
kittiwakes
bob and hop in the shallow
pools or skim low across
the breaking waves
that separate me from
the land of my birth
on this warm June morning