Late September,
A tremble of wind
Sets the trees on edge.
On the coast-path
Ahead, an adder
Esses towards you,
And a gull in
Black goggles
Scorns this intrusion
On its patch.
You move on,
Look up, beyond.
Contours of cloud
Make you imagine
Embracing it all.
It is the lie
Of the land
Taking you in.
Immense chalk cliffs,
Thin solitary stacks,
Swathes of pastel
Conspire into
Something dreamed.
And yet
Words won’t wash,
You know. This is
Still Jurassic, so
You’d better accept
This is terrain
Which withholds
Assent.
(2009)