Gallery 1

Vast and flat, more than the eye can see
the bay sweeps on to Spurn Head.
It is a seascape in monochrome.
Dun coloured sands stretch
to shades of grey,
silver to steel and almost blue.
The ebb tide hauls back sea from land
leaving a miniature desert of sand dunes
flecked with coal dust
on this almost empty beach.

Picking up pace I pass
the tall wooden breakwaters of my childhood.
They are now almost buried beneath the sand.
They draw memories of bluer skies and sunshine, donkey rides and deck chairs,
Punch and Judy,
rolled up pants and knotted hanky hats,
ice cream and sandy sandwiches.

This town is peopled with ghosts.
Grandfather and uncles
in cloth caps and wellington boots
tinker in a harbour-side garage
with its smells of petrol, tar and tobacco.
Buckets slop with plaice
and crawl with crabs –
The seaman’s barter for boat repair.

Now there are amusement arcades,
seaside souvenirs
and fish and chips.
Only one boat sails
where once were six.
It cruises on the hour,  
the lonely Yorkshire Belle.

I have been running for decades now,
my senses open to embrace
the sea, the sky,
this endless flat horizon.
Moisture clings to the fine hair
of my exposed skin.
Distances are all and nothing,
I am free of them.

I turn to see footprints.
They lead back to me.
I am only an inch tall,
insignificant in the landscape
that is absorbing me.