God in his heaven never bettered this;

            Never hit perfection more square-on.

            Rugged cliffs lip the strand,

            Opening to fields behind,

            The Atlantic, white-layered,

            Sweeping into the bay,

            Its hurry washed-out

            By the tug of sand, gently rising,

            Before it.


            A tangle of marram crowns the dunes,

            Tousled, like windswept hair;

            Whilst, on the slopes nearby,

            A line of white cottages

            Vie for prominence with the old church


            Yet, it is the call of the waves

            That steals most of the aces;

            Those rider-less white horses

            Sweeping relentlessly in,

            With their whispering lisps;

            ‘I love you, please don’t go,

            I love you please don’t go’


            And I, watching the ebb-tide dragging them back,

            Silently mouthing in their wake;

            ‘She loves me, she loves me not,

            She loves me, she loves me not…’



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