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