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.