Tuesday, April 26

Church Cove

Round the headland
Where the swallows nest
Sweep up the coast to the next bay
Out into the sea
Where tomorrow and horizon are made

The little pools
Each round, deep, and clear
Pressed down, definite
Over the rocks and under the starlight
Up to the arms of the church

And in the little graveyard
Old bones still sit, still stirred
By the march of the land into the sea
Stretched out across the sand
Ancient holes and the modern man

Back up into the trees
Put some distance behind me
At the edge of what I know to look for
Is the edge of what I can find.


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