To prove that nothing br really disappears br br and nothing comes of nothing, br days like these br br we go down to the beach br and dig for hours br br hauling up glass and creel bones br from the sand, br br veins of razor shell br and drifted oil, br br buttons and fishnets, br bottles, scraps of sail; br br and think how our language br harbours the tongues of our elders, br br Norse and Gaelic br buried in the map, br br fragments of Sanskrit br shining through the hymnals. br br More than we pretend br of what we do br br is restoration: br dreaming into life br br a world that’s neither br past nor primitive, br br but fresh as the cream of the well, br of some upland source br br concealed under plywood boards br and nettles br br – wine-dark, br aboriginal.