Trebetherick

Wind, blow me back
to Trebetherick

where the cows lie
in the fields around Trenain

like fat dominoes
waiting for the rain

and sharp grasses
make pincushions

of the dunes,
needling down

to meet the sea,
tell them,

I've gone
to find my feet,

on the flat sands
I'll make the moon

my torch and go
to meet it's pebbled breaths,

its salt will make curls of my hair
and I will forget

that there is anything
other than Trebetherick.