Cliff

Ofelia ferch Rhos

Salt spattered on chalk carves out

the rough-hewn shape of thought:

the cliff is a canvas where

they escape me, and become

mammoths on sandstone,

scattered by stick-figured spears.

Magpies perch listless as dew

and wing their words over the sea.

The water ripples their birdsong agon.

Clouds crowd in anticipation-

I am the heavens surrogate on earth

they would rapture me, and leave

the cliff empty as a forgotten age.

The stones know no different.

I am their occupying army.

I kick the stones,

kick the moss,

kick the cliff loose

so that landslipped rocks

chase down the incline.

The waves retreat-

capricious tide.

Arrogant as weeds.

Pretentious petrichor.

Dappled sun on dimpled sea

reaches over the horizon

like the old joke.

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