What happens to light on the saltmarsh?
It skids to mud.
What happens to language?
Under bulging cloud,
the larks gabble syllables.
What happens to the children?
They lie on the mud-bed,
on the dunlin’s scrawling,
in channels where the tide
trespasses, plunges,
and the rowing-boat
rotting amongst sea-purslane
won’t skim towards them.