Ted Slade • (my cousin) Withernsea, Holderness, East Yorkshire
Last night the sea ripped the beach from its bed. We heard the screams but know too well not to interfere in these family disputes. In the morning we gathered to look, ghouls at a death, the sea at our feet, calm, sated, gulls riding at anchor on it shoulders.
The meadow’s gone the same way, yard by yard, year by year. Now the house sways on the brink. When he saw his rose bushes scattered down the cliff, Jack cried. Finally we moved out when the garden shed was launched one winter’s night. Very Important Persons brought their sympathies, and went away nodding. Perhaps we’ll become little islanders. Though surely not. ... New Atlanteans at least.