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.
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