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.
Carmen Bugan 