by Jamie Hancock

We wrapped our heads around the afternoon

and watched as passing toppers broke

the ice-white caps of the waves.


You were pointing to where the high-tide mark stood

staining the side of a building, telling me how

each year the rivers strained their banks and the sea


would overspill like a bath. My height barely reached it

and I imagined myself swallowed where we were,

lost in the freshly-melted water.


Later, in a documentary, we were shown

a map of the coastline after sixty years

with the village recoloured in blue.