The pebbles point fingers to the cliffs
whose contour faces lead to the sea.
Here in Gaia’s birthing pools we are lulled
by the song of silver-paper water,
a solo for many voices, patterned by tree-light,
scented by the green promise of East Wood.
We walk with shadows of Clare, Frost and Marlowe,
see through their eyes the cushioning moss trail
crushed to jeweled droplets by our thirsty boots
until we emerge blinking into new light,
surfacing with the wild goats whose trackways
lead uninitiated to the fierce fall of Cambeak.
We respect the treachery of wind-edged boulders
until the welcome harmony of sea and sand,
where the white breakers are cleaning the canvas
of footprints and paws, smoothing anew
for tomorrow’s paddlers and painters who are
waiting in anticipation and holiday sandals.
from Forest: moor or less (Indigo Dreams, April 2020)