The Watcher of Tides.

The freedom hungry caves
Pound out the rhythm of eternity;
A red and white fishing boat,
Gulls swirling about its masts
Like whirling maypole dancers,
Rides the rolling waves,
That lash the ancient rocks
At the lip of the shoreline.
As if frozen in time, a lone heron
Stands on the sea wrack shore,
An observer through centuries:
A watcher of tides,
As they ebb and flow, swelling
Then receding like hopes and dreams.

On the side of the hill, among
The tired heather, the old crofts
Stand eyeless and skeletal, rooted
To the earth, slowly being engulfed
By time’s out-stretched hand.
Then the mist climbs from the mountains
And shards of golden light bathe
The crumbled rock with satin,
And the weathered, faded sand
Is revealed as if for the first time,
As the watcher flaps majestically
To still-black pools, beyond
The craggy pinnacle, that points
Like an accusing finger
To the west.