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‘norþan onsendeð / hreo hæglfare hæleþum andan’

The Wanderer

--

 

Sand bakes in the glare

And clouds turn back from

The onshore bully, so,

 

Ultimately, we’re lulled into that

Familiar false sense of security,

Stroked red, while sun-spots dance

 

Across our eyes, blinding us to the approach.

The onshore blast stiffened and the

horizon coughed up the darkness

 

We had evaded. A chill shade

Gave us warning before it fell

on us as the tide returned

 

Foaming, released from its leash,

Hungry for our crispy skin, our

Beer bobbing in the surf.

 

---

 

Henry Bew, 2012.

Done