I know where the thorn-apple grows

behind the hut of the Watchers.

I know where the coal tit blows, goldfinch, linnet,

Hawk mobbed by crows.

I know where small hawthorn trees

Perch below the sea wall round the lake.

Paths through the salt marsh no-one sees, radiate out

They sprawl with ease.

I know where the empty sun

Falls on the stone of chapel floor,

Lights up the pews and then is done, streaks the doorway

And it is gone.

I know where, past mud and grass,

The windmills beat their shiny blades;

Plovers, lapwings rising fast, wings of waders

Wort of glass.

I know where the spoils are red

Roman tile and Saxon brick

Buried in the wet sea bed, brine triumphant

After St Cedd.

And over all these things to me

It is again the wild Dengie:

Taste of salt and call of the Sea!

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