The Long View, Arnside

The tide was in
then out again.
So fast it was bewildering:
fishing boats flew like leaves,
flimsy, unsubstantial,
in the streaming gale.

The piers grew tall, dripping black weed,
the sandbanks breathed and expanded
their honeycomb flanks,
then, whalelike, plunged again.

The vapour they exuded
could easily have been children
paddling, crouching, digging,
growing ancient, bent and limping.

Crabs skittered like ducks and drakes.
The bay was gasping for air;
sunlight snapped at the tails
of ragged refugee clouds.

Mountains flickered white and green,
houses rose and fell
in the smoke of scaffolding.

Diesels flung themselves across the viaduct
like painted shuttles.
Nobody would be late
and there was no end to the journey.