Into this muddy coastline
the North Sea seeps silently
twice a day
under the kestrel's weather eye
in the growing puddles
gulls drill the marsh
for nothing we can see
or screech their territory
like fishwives
from the tops of poles

even in August
the sky drowns us
in small drops
settling on hair and eyes
wanting us flying in it
or grovelling in the ooze
at the water's edge

I died in this country
and came back
to pay my debts
to its wetlands

something fishes me
all the way
back to where it began

and is beginning again
down the years
with a million denials.