Trwyn Du

Trwyn Du

everything ancient,

is held here.

the stirring of seaward stones

within the bog-black

skerry song of night, 

moon-fringed;

then silvered strong

in the wink of the candela.

the frothing temperament

of tides, sucking shingle

beyond the botheration

of tumbled rocks;

a bone blanket brought home,

taken again by sunrise.

the clanging hymn of the fog bell,

birthed free of aged bronze,

a wading sound, dashed

within the tremor of rock pools;

where veiled shrieks of the sea lost,

meet nightly with salt-eyed sorrow. 

stock-still and searching,

banded with a lipless warning

in monochrome,

it knows the silent squint of iron at rust;

that jagged calamity under the bow

of waves, bequeathing no passage landward.