Winter Beachhead

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

Winter Beachhead

This is the starkest hour of the shore
when it’s purged and cleansed as a Sabbath door.
There’s a brim of lather when the tide’s in
as the waves go on with their day’s washing.

No valved or spiralled or saucered whelk,
no mussel or scallop quiets my walk;
but I make my count, as they cease from sight,
of a head of barnacle geese, a cell of eight.

They sail in their glory; we have to bide our time
and hold out for the fullness to come—
for spring sands merry with foxes’ tails,
or kelp tresses, for clam and cowrie shells.

Nuala Ni Dhomhnaill

translated by Medbh McGuckian

“We have to bide our time.” That’s just it. Waiting for Spring has become an exercise in long-suffering, that beautiful old word for patience. It’s March now, and there’s still snow on the lawn. I like that “this is the starkest hour”, with bare trees and no colours – it’s not just the shore that is bleak. I’m holding out for “the fullness to come”, that’s for certain.