Biography
He asked me if I would like to see the photos
He had taken when back there
That warm blue skied summer
How could I say no
So there they were
Slow gentle cattle standing on the beach
Moving amongst the same
Fine golden sand
I had been buried in as a child;
With the beckoning sea pulling behind
Towards a promising land
And so too those greens
Rapture of emerald-scented grasses
Atlantic blown
Dotted with inscrutable, curly-horned rams
I heard a sax play a tune to the ocean
And through it all
Ran the hard, dappled grey
Walls of stone men had made
They fenced nothing in
And yet let nothing really out.
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