Swash

Nothing to beat an empty winter beach, swept fresh and new with each tide.


Terra Incognita

And now we come to the unknown land 
With its blue coves and inlets where sweet water 
Bubbles against the salt. Its sand Is ready for footprints. 
Give me your hand

 Onto the rock where the seaweed clings
 And the red anemone throbs in its crevice 
Through swash and backwash. These things
 Various as the brain’s comb and the tide’s swing.

Or the first touch of untouched terrain 
On our footsoles, as the land explores us, 
Have become our fortune. Let me explain 
Which foods are good to eat, and which poison.

Poem by Helen Dunmore (1952-2017) written after she visited Antarctica.