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!