Frome Gravesend

In a town so small it barely had a name
The Fates weighed quiet anchor on the shore.
While ancient trees stood darkly in our way:
the tide went out.
Even History is surprised that she should be here
And her footprints look like questions in the sand.
She looks at Death and wonders what he’ll give her
and the tide goes out.
And Duty takes my hand and wears me grey
while clouds make weightless exit over sea.
With all the letters never sent, yours never came
And the tide goes out.
The tide goes out again.
Here, the smell of winter
Isn’t one I used to know.
And all these trees retain their colour
Though the endless rain
Should wash them through.