Sun peppers the sea as we step like ghosts
down from the dark galleries
where the blood-red line between beauty and terror
is sometimes visible
behind the writing on the wall
Disintegrating tree-stumps
mark the ancient quay
long sucked away
We, lost children sent
on a forgotten errand,
look for the lingering paths,
watching the tides,
following old footprints
that fade away
We carry faint maps
between our shoulder-blades,
the mystical beginning
and the end
This is not home, nor looks like it
though there is something in the trees
and mirage hills
that hovers shining out of reach
No signposts here,
no memories: just
ripples of grace around our feet
and a muddy gate
that might be pushed open