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The British Seashore

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On the cliff at the Worm’s Head High above the horns of the bay I see the surfers ride great waves With horses’ manes That ever fail, but never end In the strong Atlantic surge In the estuary at Dartmouth Where the oyster boats dredge Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance Great nets of shells are hauled up And poured out on to the decks As I plunge upriver Tacking along the wending Dart With bent-puzzle oaks on either side I hear a sudden hush descend Upon a lonely river hythe As time and air, smooth and still Forever glide, like Mayflies On cold, clear water In the seaway by the port With its unmistakable algal aroma Of the British seashore I hear the heavy horn of a freighter That plies its path And never sinks, yet ever diminishes Beyond the waves And far from the pier of the seaside town Where sandpipers probe In spiral casts I hear the penthal call of the curlew Like silver flourishes on a black cloud That never moves, but holds dominion In the cold morning air.

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