We may no longer gather rosebuds:
Listen – midst the ash and bone
Limp red roses whisper tales
Of rosebuds dead and gone.
The flies drone on then stop. The silence
Fills with heat and sun and smells.
A fly moves. In the silence
I think I hear St Osyth’s bells
Ring out across the empty marsh
Green and grey, the cold grey sea
Washing the foaming sand, a gull
Call – call – call – to me