Above Dover by Ros Barber

Here, goodbyes rise on the air like gulls,
like handkerchiefs waved from the railings of liners,
like kisses blown and sea-spit spattering the face
of the lone walker slogging the beach below.

Along the slough of tideline, they seed and settle,
rooting against the rough policing of the wind
and passing it over their heads like baggage, like buckets
of water to quell the heat of what has gone.

An indigenous species, they clump and cling to the earth
or launch in colonies, both animated, and rooted firm.
Their habit, by turns, is low and sprawling, salt resistant;
or feathered, rapacious, garrulous and soaring.

Leave them here. They will thrive in the thin grass,
the crumbling edge, the bluff air. In winter they will shed
their sorry tear-shaped petals, their black heads.
Come and collect them back when you are done.

— Ros Barber