Headland

February 12, 2017

walking1

Each weekend we flee the chatter of screens,
the hum of central heating, the kids that kick a ball
against next door’s graffiti wall. We drive beyond
our valley humdrum with bracken,
pockmarked with burnt out cars, and past
the bruised lungs of an open cast mine. All
are left behind. We trek our cliff path and peg
the fret and noise to dry in sea breezes,
and if a scatter of tiny bones are found,
we know that endings are a footfall away.
But when stumbling on a nook in salt-cracked rock,
we slide into its curves, share our flask of tea,
wait for the malarkey of dolphins to begin.

Phil Wood

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