WIND BLOWN CLIFFS

 

It appeared as a cathedral

of jagged stones, those lone

variations in the jutting hills.

No organ playing here, merely

the sound of winds buffeting the

crags. Don’t ask me about those

 

names of cawing choughs, those

Passerine birds whose voice was

heard above the crashing waves.

I am ever in awe of their haunting

sounds. It is a profound orchestral

cacophony, set amid the plant life

 

on the cliffs. All that seagull and Guana

poo. Howl on you plaintiff orchestral

intervals, as I do up the laces on my shoe.

A cruise ship passes by, with passengers

on deck. Blown away by a subtle beauty of it,

as if some hidden power escaped from rocks