Beyond the Dancing Ledge the salt breeze widens

And whispers into caves, but its sound at times

Hurls itself underground, then rises just as a hum

To where my feet, blistered and determined

Meet the old path. I search again with

Sea-tasting hair in dry mouth –

The weight of winspit, wishspit, windspit

Love which opens to love of sorts:

Pub table, drenched clothes, white cliffs;

At the end of today’s walk over the sound

Of sea under the path, sudden soft

Explosions through gaps and tunnels, underfoot.

From Lilies from America

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