Porthmeor

Two children are sitting
on a wall watching
the crashing foam below
their swing-kicking legs.
And they are not afraid.
They are not afraid as
seagulls screech and toss
their lanky wings
across wind-swept clouds.

Rip-raging seas of grey
and green meet and
fling themselves away
from each other in terror.
The call of the stark
rocks below is almost
as deafening as the
piercing sun…

Burning a hole
through the torrid sky…
seering into my thoughts,
melting all words,
all is velvet.

All the fish will die.
In a scream of all-
encompassing greed
and pride.
They are pleading with us
for their time.
Time is a spinning blade
in a game of chicken
- sink or swim.

Take the tube, ride a bus
or just crawl slowly
homewards.
We all need our space
near this star.

                                      - Cornwall, 1999