#NationalMarineWeek 2021 24th July – 8th August. Fifth Day July 28th Sand Dunes And Saltmarshes. Have you written unpublished/published poetry/artwork about Sand dunes And Saltmarshes, or the objects in the photos below ? Poetry and Artworks/photo challenge. When a week is sixteen days to account for the tides in Britain. Here are the first eight day themes: July 24th: Seawatch, July 25th: Rock-pools, July 26th: Seabirds And Seals, July 27th: The Strandline, July 28th: Sand Dunes And Salt-Marshes, July 29th: Fish-Life, July 30th: What Marine Life Does For Us. July 31st: Beachcombing. Please submit your poems and artwork by DM to me, or send a message via my WordPress “The Wombwell Rainbow” contact screen or my FB “Paul Brookes-Writer and Photographer”

Fifth Day – Sand Dunes And Saltmarshes

sand dune spotter guide 1

sand dune spotter guide 2

Sand Dunes by Yvonne Marjot

-Sand Dune artwork by Yvonne Marjot

Watching at Spurn Point

Saltwort, sea-spurge, marram grass root in sand
scaffolds for the dunes that grow with the tides.
Softwood breakwaters branch to the headland
where black-headed gulls take wind driven rides.

Shrill calling terns flock glorious in flight
until they drop, dive the ebb, dive the flood.
At the tide line blossoms of black and white
oystercatchers probing estuarine mud.

Migrating birds don’t mimic clouds by choice
as their journeys cross shadowing the sun.
All the raucous cries sounding like the voice
of the wind, waves and sand never outrun.

Saltwort, sea-spurge, marram grass root in sand
scaffolds for the dunes that grow with the tides.
Softwood breakwaters branch to the headland
where black-headed gulls take wind driven rides.

Shrill calling terns flock glorious in flight
until they drop, dive the ebb, dive the flood.
At the tide line blossoms of black and white
oystercatchers probing estuarine mud.

Migrating birds don’t mimic clouds by choice
as their journeys cross shadowing the sun.
All the raucous cries sounding like the voice
of the wind, waves and sand never outrun.

-Julia Corbett

The Stopper by Rob Miles

Skylark

Who would have guessed
its insignificance,
that here on the path
it could be a sparrow
only skinnier?

Then it rises
with that distinctive flight
like the way I cycle
hell for leather
then a glorious freewheeling

-Carole Bromley

SAND DUNES & SALTMARSHES 
Romney Marsh 1066

Englalond greets us with the smell of eggy fart;
salt marshes reek of death.
This is our gift to Harold;
we expect a crown in return.

The marram grass clings in tufts
like wild, lime-haired Picts,
having hurled themselves over Hadrian’s wall;
who cannot now occupy the land for long.

The striped square sail grinds into soft sand
not on a broad bay as planned.
Already the midges are out in opposition,
but no shield-bearing Saxons.

There is no Matilda in sight –
fine new flagship bought by Duke William’s wife.
Other than a hooded figure boiling crabs
there are no signs of human habitation.

Our fleet-footed scout catches this serf
while the rest of us wobble on sea-legs.
Turns out we’re in Romney,
a good thirty miles east of the invasion fleet.

This whole affair is ill-fated –
Storms in the Seine estuary
nearly sunk us before we set off.

Great sand dunes slip and slide,
under hoof and underfoot,
of sweaty retainers in iron-ringed hauberks
grumbling about lack of water.

William intends
to establish a beach head
fortify the coast against counter-attack.

We risk his wrath arriving late for a battle,
need to know the lie of the land.
The man chained to our mast was born in Mercia,
tells me we are in Cent.

The slave raises his head and laughs.
Dozens of boats are in the water,
men swarming with spears and bows.
Too many; we must away.

-John Wolf 28th July 2021.

dreams by Leela Soma

-Leela Soma

Blooming

A celandine went first,
and if we had ever looked, we would have known
it was a freeze-frame of a live firework,
we would have expected
the violence that sparked from the inside out,
the heat petalling sweetly,
each stamen springing a hellmouth.

A rose caught,
thorns spitting pop-pop-pop from the stem,
the leaves crisping, and as an afterthought,
the buds, like charged kisses,
lipped the flames to ragwort and vetch.
An oxeye daisy burst,
white-hot in its eagerness.

We dialled nine-nine-nine,
we called the press, but our words burned away,
and as day bloomed into evening time,
the honeysuckle, its lashes
glowing in the last light of the sun,
tipped a long wink to Venus
and blew like an H-bomb.

-Nina Parmenter

The Marine Sonnets:

The Sand Dune

A youngster I am blown about, scatter.
Roots arrive, dig into me, I grow here, hid
behind something from elsewhere, what matters.
Marram grass. Youngsters make a seaward bid,

sheltering me. I am background. My lime
rich shell sand, home to burrowing bees, quick
digger Wasps, sand swimming sand snakes.
In time
I grow older, taller, more chaotic.

Soon I may have a lake and marsh grass,
Later Sea buckthorn, birch. I am woodland.
My oaks rise, sunlight blooms through leaves, wings pass
in between branches. My youth blown sand.

I was near a sea but now I’m forest.
I hear my trees converse. Life never rests.

Bios And Links

-Julie Corbett

lives in Holderness and sometimes writes a poem. Her poetry has been published in anthologies and journals, including Spokes, Magma, The Fib Review, and The Right Eyed Deer.

-Carole Bromley

is a York-based poet writing for both adults (latest collection, The Peregrine Falcons of York Minster, Valley Press, 2020) and children ( Blast Off! Smith Doorstop, 2017)

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