By the sand and pebble shore there’s a cliff,
Yellow ochre, at it’s base a narrow margin of sandy turf.
This place sings with a quiet light infused voice.
It drew my attention by singing an
I looked and saw that this song was sung by
Water, high up, trickles from the rock
With a flow so slight as to consist of
A light shower whose drops,
Suspended in air for a dizzying timeless moment
Before landing in a shallow trench in the turf below.
I’m not the only one to notice this quiet song.
Others have placed flat beach pebbles
In circles on the turf and,
Tucked up at the bottom of the cliff
In the angle where the rock joins the grass,
Some broken egg shells left there by crows,
As well as a discarded mussel shell:
Offerings of a sort.
I sit next to a sycamore
Which makes it’s own hymn,
With green flowers suspended from palmate leaves
Held out against the empyrean blue,
Sung to the counterpoint of waves falling gently against the shore.