Beach Huts in Winter

We picture them at the grey road’s end
where nights thin to sea-asters
and children run to dazzle.

Patient, padlocked, deserted as shells.
Shelved in sand-lisp and
the whisper of slipper limpets.

All winter they wait. Ridgeboard
and shiplap dressed by the moon.
Blue with rain-glaze

or frail in wind-lash,
a ripple of pastels,
an ice-cream palette.

What haunts their hollows?
A kettle’s aspirates,
a half-tanned page,
wet foot-prints evanescing.

We think of them as the raven stoops.
Lockets in black velvet
holding a sun-bleached hair.

I have loved poetry since my teens, beginning
with Emily Bronte, and later, a poet both local
and dear to me, John Clare. My poems won
modest prizes, and my first pamphlet was
published by Acumen. My first full collection
was published by Shoestring Press, edited by
John Lucas. It is called At the Edge of Light;
I am still working at that edge.