Silent Motion

There’s a strangeness to the sea up here,
where wind whips off of white horses,
and cliffs fall so sharply, sharper than anywhere else.

Pyramids of rock cut out delicately submerged pools,
pools deep enough to lose yourself in, deep enough to dream forever.

Dark eyes and darker souls, thrashing in stormy waters,
disguised in the shadows and chaos of breaking waves.

All looked down upon by sea worn cottages balancing on the coastlines edge, from Quay to Point and back again.

Erosion takes the brick and mortar closer to the sea bed day by day,
ongoing victories in a war of attrition.

Such murky depths, thick with mackerel, peppered by cormorants and shag,
observed through squinted eyes, obscured by a porthole encrusted with salt.

Behind such brine soaked glass, is the only peace.
The violence of the sea is kept quiet by rivets and structure,
only silent motion can be felt.