I can’t help but love it here.
The desolation elates my melancholia,
swathes me in haunted clothes
and comforts a need for loneliness.

To look upon desiccated cliffs,
trickling down to meet
the emulsifying waters
of a serious North Sea,
makes me yearn to offer myself up
to the ravages of tide and time.

How smooth I would become!
Worn to my bones
by ceaseless motion,
wearing the patina of eternity.
I would sigh upon the mud
settling into a shape of my own making.

In my heart I know
I’m just a fossil
same as all the rest,
who lie in wait
to be picked over –
anticipating selection
or discardment.

I hope to be discarded,
sent back to the mud
and the incessant ****
of sand and stones.

I shall try, very hard,
not to be afraid
when black night falls.
For I have always been afraid
of that which creeps and calls
through unilluminated hours.

But, if this place
is to be called home
I’ll get used to the dark,
bunk in with shadows
waiting for the trickles to quicken,
heralding the next great landslide.