Lending Holy Island

When the moon was just a reading lamp,
Treaddur Bay grinned wide, retreating,
while waves notch a calender to the cliffs.

Pebbles played tick and tock on the beaches:
the forgetful sea recording its thoughts.
We sailed, skipping over chapters, each choppy wave

a paragraph breaking. We built a flashy
exclamation, as much to show off
as to warn passing ships. At the mountain's

trig-point, an apostrophe of stones,
our claim of ownership to the pedantic stars.
The dust-jacket cliffs for this crumbling memoir
still try to remind us: this book is on loan.