By Edward Lewis Pogson

 

Across the Morecambe Sands 

Across the sands of Morecambe,

The oyster-catchers fly,

Diving, wheeling, soaring against the evening sky.

Countless in their numbers, ceaseless in their cry.

Across the sands of Morecambe,

The tide remorseless sweeps,

Lapping in the shadows, rushing in the deeps.

Endless in its vastness, quietly it creeps.

Across the sands of Morecambe,

The hills of Lakeland stand.

Majestic in their beauty as distant is the land

Across the bay from Morecambe, across the Morecambe sands.

Across the bay of Morecambe,

The sun will slowly set,

And yielding with its dying rays a splendour of regret,

Ere I should leave this lovely bay across the Morecambe sands.

©Edward Lewis Pogson 1978

Advertisements