Canto XVI

On the southeast edge of broken Britain
our nephew scrawls the word “bum” onto sand
then smiles for the shot, as blameless as a kitten.

We sweep the beach at sunset though we planned
to wolf down greasy piles of fish and chips
but found the shutters down on shops and stands.

There are no oil rigs or passing ships
to pepper the horizon’s bare expanse
that flares amber as our mother star dips—

its final dose of photons find the lens
at edge of country, season, edge of day;
provides a feast for almost every sense,

then we resume our quest for takeaway.

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