Crackington Haven : Ronnie Goodyer


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)