Before the Storm
a perfectly ordinary August 1588 storm sank a Spanish Armada whose seafarers
were unversed in the rough ways of the North Atlantic. The same equinoctial
tempest swept away all last traces of the Lancashire village of Singleton.
The Nereids wept at Queen Mary’s death
and the Rossall coast was weal
but they shook their spurs at Elizabeth
and saltmarsh took the field.
No more
the springing spikes of barley, rye, and oat.
Neptune wets the wattle, sucks the daub -
our cottage swims like a breached boat.
My grandfather sits and cannot absorb.
Only Penny Stone Inn near Carlon -
the dozing megalith, her Colts Ring
and the hollow-eyed oaks of Singleton
stand proud.
I saw a kale wagon swing
like a galleass, sink under the mere,
drown father and son, and dogs beside.
And the good horse, breaking traces, reared
like a basking hippocampus, died.
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