the heart of this place

is beneath my feet

slipped between the grass and tarmac

in the piles of muck and clay

below people

tucked in shuttered houses

it lies in fields

under beating rain

soaking up

impermanence

this bulging land

pushes to the boundary

of sand and curlew

with loam tinged by the tang

of salt

ghosts brush the street,

skim the old pond and the copper beech

buzzards swoop and clear the rot

pulling at flesh

nothing stays

that does not sink