Along the rugged line of sand
the black teeth of the groynes
protrude, and guard the strip of land.
A pirate smiles, purloins…
The cliff is frowning at the sea,
the taste of salty tears
the church, the anchor, cannot flee
– it won’t be many years
until the graves they made on land
– with lichen-covered stones they stand –
will join the crushing waves that ate
the ones of lesser fate.