When the penny dropped from my hand
and settled, the blackened face
of Georgivs Rex dissolving in the sand,

I saw how lovingly the earth resumes
possession, like a blizzard in reverse,
retaining every blemish, every scratch

and fingerprint, a history of touch
and currency, laid down
and buried with that last faint bloom of warmth

unwittingly surrendered to a depth
I thought about for days, through paper rounds
and chemistry exams, as it became

the echo of my ordinary self
sounded-out and guessed-at in a chill
descent that would continue while I walked

from home to school, from school to morning mass:
another presence, folding through the long
slow water, like a descant, or a pulse.

• John Burnside won the Whitbread Poetry Award this week for his latest collection, The Asylum Dance, published by Jonathan Cape, price £8.