Redcar, a hinterland,
unlandmarked coast of sand,
flat sea, small dunes, but yonder,
in un-grassed Saxon graves,
a brooch, a bullion find,
worked gold, red stone, a wonder
of burnished art. A hand
might hold the contraband
that gives back to this town
twelve centuries of depth
in such fine contour. Found,
truth's road we can go down,
marauding yarls behind
the quiet field around.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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