I could never dream of English
rains that lashed the slabs of Cornish
paves, as a wild clawed cat paws
waves into boats onto rocks
unto death. Hear the slosh
slosh slosh of Mousehole harbour's
bathtub slop; see the gulls flying
backwards, the rainbows as warning
flags, the white horses blowing
up the cliff and over the heath,
taste the wind-nipped salt
drying on your lips. Once I felt
the lightning buzz before
it cleaved a nearby birch in two,
once saw the eye of Men-an-Tol
winking in the storm, and fish
jumping for their very lives
straight into the mouths of birds.
The sea is everywhere. It bites
at our ankles, gnaws at the crags
in cliffs until the whole world
tumbles into its steaming maw.
It rises and falls, rises and falls,
hailing into the flanks of miserable
animals on the storm-sodden tor.
Do they pine, as we do, for one
last breath of stagnant summer?









