Strip of scrubby land
just beyond the golf course
with blackened, backcombed bushes.
Between the coast road and the sea,
bordered with chunks of broken concrete,
boulders, twisted bits of washed-up metal.
I walk my dog here
on the muddy track, following
his tail like a flag.
Place where gorse and brambles
cling to life, battered by
Western winds and Solway tides.
In ten years’ time
it will have gone.
I’m setting down a marker.