clings desperately to paths edge
cliffs look out with angry old faces
hopes dashed with next westerly gale
Rusted broken beacon smashed by
a hundred storms or wreckers hand
curlews wail their thin song of wasted tome
"Too late!" "Too late!" Wheel and dive in mourning flight
Wreathes of fog earth bound clouds
in sea fret wringing hands of grief
a bell bouy sounds peeling in the distance
upon still water like obsidian glass
but, with an undercurrent of movement
rippling in laconic samba...