Time and Tide

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.