There is a beach
naught but mud and shells.
waves crash against stone
sounding continuous knells.
high above the lost tyres, cut rocks,
old cans and waving heather
looms a perfect cliff
you can lay on the top of it forever
watching the sky through the branches-
or the horizon from the peak
there's a magic to this place
if only you will seek.
the wind calls my name
not in a language I know
but here our tongues are the same
tugging branches to and fro.
she comes when I call,
a goddess of happy whim
being weather is random certainty
here I'm possessed
and like the tempest, without sin.