To The Point
Seals bask on the sand stinking of fish.
Just off the beach terns scream
As, one by one, they dive
flashing for glittering sprats.
At my feet, thrift and poppies flutter
flowers glowing like stained glass.
Across the inner channel
a lobster boat stops to haul out creels
the men’s voices carrying, indistinct
over the hush of the waves coming in.
As I turn for home, a harrier
is quartering the marsh one final time
and a herring gull puts up, disconcerted.
You want me to tell you I love you.
Chris Rushby lives in north Norfolk. He wrote poems in adolescence, then stopped. Several decades later the impulse seems to have returned.