Lytham (an earlier v. published by The Deck Hand)

I carry the estuary on my back,
a deadweight of scuttled boats 
and brackish puddles, 
dirty rook scrub sinking 
into broken clam beds 
and cloud scudded mudflats.

Keel to sky I sway on sea-legs,
hauling a breached hull 
of cracked amphoras filled
with silt, all these years 
and still no catch to land.

Wind scuffs the aimless arrows
of a sea bird’s footprints
in the black and copper sand.