where some epitaphs are eroded,
weathered away, souls forgotten
on this silver-sky New Year's Day.
The hiss of the stream is soothing
and bare branches rise up like monsters' claws,
at the top of a hill I stand and pause
to stare at the grey ocean down below
as dusk drops down, a most sinister time,
lights of a tanker illuminating
the horizon as we reach Holcombe village
drinking tea in the Smugglers Inn
contented to be with my dearest friend,
talking of God...watching darkness descend.