The Manor of the Harbour
Holiday – first morning, first walk, bright and early,
up on the sea wall, taking in nothing, seeing it all:
soaring wing-gulls tell of their morning, their lives a tale to tell,
gliding over cliffs or diving into storms, sitting quiet on rolling swell –
wishing your soul was with them, to sail hover-currents over bob-seas,
into lobster pots laid by able seamen, provisioners of delicacies
to eager-eyed gobblers who’ve travelled here on echo-buses of lost-remembered tales,
telling of seaside caverns, fine-beer taverns and isolate, silent houses.
Houses made of slate and blackstone, made with love and heart,
somewhere you can hear the Earth, somewhere out of your world,
somewhere you’re not yourself, only better, where time counts only towards the next pint,
the next view and a hearty meal to set you right.
Somewhere set in lands beyond cloudless scud-skies, and trickle-stop torrent-showers,
lands beyond lore and lands of sand from times of yore, lands of distant gazes,
of nods and smiles, of endless whiles and together-walked miles,
lands where your mind is free to run, considering, un-thinking, mulling and re-believing,
coming to reflections of fundament, oubliette epiphanies of everyday life,
so crucial, so true, so fundamental to the crux of you; lost, forever.
But who cares? Nothing matters bar the silent, soaking peace.