Just north of Sunderland Point, 21st March 2025

A Deep Meaningful Conversation on Lancaster Station While Waiting for the Train to Leeds

Except that we didn’t have one:

“Is 27 minutes long enough to get going?”

“You start.”

“No. You!” (laughter).

Time and departures try to force the day

literal measures which finally won’t count 

something will always persist of memory and love

an unbreakable link between now and then and what will be . . .

and despite that after the train left

then being stuck too long in Asda, turned the sky grey,

out near the Lune’s end by Sambo’s Grave

even the low tide reaches of marsh and mud

appeared profound in a positive way.

Unless a kind of overdrive caused by falling off the bike, expanded the day?

The front wheel took the brunt – totally buckled it was,

old handlebars askew

pain from guilt, an angry sense that all was lost.

Yet bent back against a road salt box,

the bike ran as good as new –  

despair turned to freedom

as if there was a spell or charm working for us.

Now, staring out towards an invisible sea,

the only sounds are of sandpiper, curlew and the wind

and some tiny scrap of litter that

cannot decide which way to blow.

.

Lawrence Freiesleben

.