In Mid-Winter: ( The Headland, Hartlepool, December 2020)

In mid- winter, the Headland is a haunted place: 
Where spectral longings hover like wounded angels, 
Where soft silence lies as deep as December snow, 
Where loneliness hangs, and lingers, like icicles; 
Where nothing happens that has not happened before, 
Where crude, grey- black sea foam licks a pebbled shore, 
Where feral gulls glide over frosted, granite cliffs, 
Where straggled strands of green seaweed cling to rock pools, 
Where encrusted, fearful limpets are tightly locked, 
Where cracked, coloured shells are crammed with whispered secrets, 
Where bitter winds blow and howl like mad, long- lost souls, 
Where macabre crabs scuttle over old fish bones, 
Where life limps along, despite the town's Christmas throng, 
Where there are no flashing lights or seasonal cheers; 
Only slow echoes of ancient murmurs and moans, 
Where mundane clouds drift in ever darkening skies, 
Where pollution turns pure water to inky blue.
Where discarded plastic mocks frayed, once golden, sands 
Where summer's dreams are buried under cold, hard stones, 
Where spectral longings hover like broken angels, 
Where Time itself seems frozen. And yet, I perceive
Delicate forms foreshadowing spring's awakening, 
As little flowers of sumptuous violet, white
And flesh pink gently stir in salty, withered earth.