The sea sparks a poem I read at school, hidden in an anthology,
scrawled and shaded with words
about caesuras, sex and sibilance.
She, the poet, felt the incoming
waves contained her dead and lost friends,
unfurling from the water towards her.
A procession of bodies, lapping against the shore.
The chalk path pounded by feet,
alternates between blinding and grey
according to the sun.
Along the way a sign points
to an ancient burial ground unearthed
or earthed on the beach.
A sea-henge, fifty split oak trunks,
carved and placed into sand.
Myth says the bodies left in the henge
would be plucked, sucked and tucked
into by hungry birds,
until only its bones remained.
Clothes now hide most our flesh and we giggle at the carnal.
A little uneasy, I examine
the ancient ring and mull over our newness.
I think how I too will be
pecked by the gulls.