Along the beach by Holkham pines
The ghosts stand watch on buried signs.
You feel them in the northern gales,
You hear them in the needles’ shake.
They choke the midnight bark of deer,
They still the hunting tawny owl,
And out before the rising tide
They pull the moon and drag it down.
The coast is endless, planet wide,
The sands are drifting, silence swirled.
But there amongst the broken pines
The Holkham ghosts are waiting still.
They hang and harm, they smooth and calm,
They break believers and possess.