Stephen Cogbill
An archaeology field trip to Goldcliff
Called from sleep
not by the sun
but the sea-state
of the estuary
We’re off to that
shape shifting,
inter-tidal world
Not properly land
nor sea.
At first
firm bands of silt
carry the weight
of our assorted wellies
Most spattered with dried mud
Others hosed into
reluctant shininess
by fastidious owners.
*****
A furlong out to sea
A flock of oystercatchers
peeps loudly as
It wheels into the sky
leaving no trace
on the flats.
We get there
past recumbent
half-submerged trees
Our timid feet sinking in
over the ankles
The fear
of boot-topping depths
to come
We wobble like drunks
seeking the salvation
of firmer ground.
*****
The Prof
seemingly immune to wobbling
leads us straight
to the spot
With buckets of water
and urgent hands
We scoop and sluice away
the mud
Washing away time.
We stare at the footprints
In the silty clay
Children
who played in this place
running in the mud
nearly 8,000 years ago
Laughing and shrieking
the warm mud oozing
through their toes
What hopes and cares
they must have carried?
*****
A cloud passes
A few fleeting moments more
before the tide reclaims
these secrets
It will claim us too
given half a chance!
We race to record
what we see.
*****
Back home
I look at
the photographs
on the table
Scant proof it was anything
More than a dream.
The shy, mythical
‘land under sea’
Is teasing us
Hinting at its existence
And the distant lives
It is keeping to itself
It has me in its thrall.