There is a point, marked with a red snapped spade
(for we dug like demons) a point where frivolous din
ferments; rendering silent the yapping kids and laughing
dogs, a point where a seagull’s screech can deafen.
It’s beyond the lug-holed vestiges, the seaweed-strewn
remnants. It’s beyond the Sally Mae; the barnacled boat
come ship come stranded dream.
It’s in a place between life and a tragic death you’d read
about in a local rag:
“Father and son drowned whilst digging for China”
It’s a point of reluctant return. From there, the factories
are cloud makers, the roof-tops; snowy mountain peaks.
It’s a place to revisit, with a sturdier spade.