Michael H. F. Wilkinson
Skirmishers
Dandelions dot the windswept grass
on this man-made chain of hills,
this earthwork fortress,
solid bulwark against the tides,
besieged by the North Sea.
Sheep graze here, oblivious,
impervious to the stiff sea breeze.
Waves lap the shoreline rhythmically,
no frontal assault seems imminent,
no storm surge is gathering.
But something comes creeping,
seeping through cracks and pores,
deep under the dike we thought secure,
seawater advances underground,
feeling its way forward.
The sea’s skirmishers, maybe,
infiltrating their old domain
trying to reclaim it,
or at least deny mankind
the fruits of its conquest.
Winter rains hold them back,
but with every summer’s drought
underground outriders advance,
insinuating themselves
into the water table.
And so the skirmishers creep on,
sapping the soil’s fertility,
finding their way towards the roots,
blighting some corner of a field,
one crop at a time.
The sea has all the time in the world.