Crackington Haven

The pebbles point fingers to the cliffs

and the contour cliff-faces lead to the sea.

Here in Gaia’s birthing pools we ascend the valley,

lulled by the song of Spring’s silver-paper water,

a solo song for many voices, patterned by tree-light

and scented by the green promise of East Wood.

We walk with shadows of Clare, Frost and Marlowe,

see through their eyes the cushioning scented moss trail

crushed to jewelled water droplets by our thirsty boots

until we emerge blinking into new light, surfacing

with the wild goats whose trackways lead

the uninitiated to the fierce fall of Cambeak.

We tread the rise and fall of catkin hedgerows,

respect the treachery of each wind-edged boulder and stone

until the welcome harmony of sea and sand, where

the white breakers are cleaning the canvas of footprints and paws,

smoothing anew for tomorrow’s painters

who are waiting in anticipation and holiday sandals.

Blue Drift

Quarried like granite

dug out diamond

or unlucky opal,

you have exposed

a vein in me

that is brighter,

more luminous

than any prospector told.

The stone freed,

has been knocked,

chipped, ground

between boulders

to its mica.

That which seemed

sea glass or feldspar

has become sapphire

gathered in the hand

of a man

walking at tide-time

in flotsam.