In some lights you can see them clearly ‒
those wind farm masts, far out, in a line
like silver stubble pricking the horizon.
With the sea flat-calm, in some lights
they come so close you could zip your coat
and walk out, salt-road-easy.
Their arms are siren-welcome, with an unheard song
that in some lights rings like a summer shower
on shingle, clean as a rinsed moon.
You’ve studied direction, where to stand, undazzled,
linking eyes; you also know in some lights
they refuse even an echo, leaving the sky empty.
Days when they’re invisible, when the rough fetch
gnaws at the beach, chews the cliffs with worry ‒
in some lights changing the places of earth and sky ‒
you hunker down, try not to read answers
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