South Sutor

A sleeping giant, the headland rests
Heavy on its side, water washing its head.
Over the firth is its still brother,
North Sutor, alike in dignity and history.

Once cobblers working in leather,
Waves would ripple with their laughter,
Tossing the tools of their trade
Back and forth across the stormy water.

Slowly they sank down into legend,
Forgotten as people lost faith in old ways.
Now they lie as great arms outstretched,
Echoes of beating hammers sounding out to sea.