The land falls to sea
here where basalt meets
the taste of salt air,
and time is measured in erosions,
in geological formations.
Wind scours clean what ocean
fails to claim, with tree and
blade of coastal grasses
trembling witnesses.
Lighthouse sentinel, once white
against darkness, stands immute,
with throngs of tourists in
awe of its impotent presence.
The boardwalk’s wooden tongue
tastes sky and stone and sea,
descending into that primal place
of rockpools, sand and jagged edges.
The cliffs are washed in crashing pulses,
leaking basalt black with ochre wounds,
as sea-spray crystallises on my cracking lips,
a communion with something older than prayer itself.
13/4/2025
Ed's Poetry Place 