The Sunken Bell
Walk the shingle at Dunwich, among sea worn
stones, salted pebbles, you'll find amber, or
a heart, like the ones that Gerhard found before us.
He was more discerning about their shapes.
Over the road is the sea, under the waves
the beach. This morning the field floats, swans
glide over a flood of reflected light, where later
out my window a second moon shimmers.
Whatever changes the sea holds the skies colour,
stars are clear to steer or swim or drown under.
The waves wake the sea's dream; land is ceded.
At All Saints a last grave faces the cliff's edge.
St Bartholemew's, St John's, St Martin's, St Michael's,
all sunk; they say you can hear the bells toll
in the tides. Let us cast a new bell form from molten
flame, sink it deep, before the sea covers this land.