The woman kneels, a smile on her lips.
‘Hello old friend,’ she whispers.
The sea shimmers.
It remembers her.
And those who came before.
A river diverted. A town reclaimed.
The creak of timber, clack of steel,
Of trawlers and merchant ships
that glide along the river’s breath.
With cargo of rock, salt and clay
Of Back Beach where fishermen work
Leathered hands mending nets (and lobster pots)
in the lull between tides.
Singing shanties with a tankard…or two.
Of thunder and fire.
Raining ash, drifting on sea-foam
The wooden toy floating in the harbour.
A little girl, salt and tears.
The night the bombs fell.
Of the SS Galacia.
Iron sparks, plumes of wood smoke,
Flotsam drawing crowds
Before she surrenders to the waves
Now silent in her depths.
‘It is time,’ the woman says.
A child shuffles forward,
Orange bucket in his grasp.
Carefully, he tips out the contents.
A flash of silver, the sea accepts.
She never forgets.
A poem based around Teignmouth.
Copyright © 2026 Lottie McKnight. All rights reserved.
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