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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 riderless 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…’


nico jesse

I could write a poem about you
It might even say
‘I love you’

There would be hate;
A modicum of debate
About whether you were you

Or was it your dead-ringer I saw
Slurping in the arms of granite-jaw
When the forty-love shot was hailed
And you and lover-boy got nailed

TV doesn’t lie my dear;
Only one thing now is missing;
Who was that bastard you were kissing?

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