Mousehole From The Path Atop The Beach…
The sunrise tarries,
Barely lightening
The quivering, grey mass of ocean
Which slithers
Over scattered slippery,
Dull and damp rocks,
Unhurried.
A cormorant skims,
Barely touching
The rippling, cold, ashen tide
Which writhes
Over shapeless, shivering
Slate-grey rocks,
Unstemmed.
The breeze flicks,
Barely licking
The seething, deep, obstinate threat,
Which clambers
Over listless, loveless
Weed-strewn rocks
Unchecked.
And Mousehole village hunches,
Barely hiding its winter anguish
About imminent breaking seas,
Those worrying, wry incursions
Which slash and envelop, rush
And roar and leap and tease…
And building stones reflect gold, indiscriminately
In the morning’s cold and brisk awakening,
As the harbour walls wrap their protective arms
About the nestling quay, the inner sanctuary.
And the vista claws at one’s joy, savouring
The spectacle, which the troubled mind becalms…
Pete Ray
27th January 2023
Walking towards the harbour along the pathway at the top of the narrow, stony, rock-strewn Mousehole beach.
Suddenly, the quay becomes visible, surrounded by a built upon hillside which seems to huddle over the harbour.
In winter, the harbour entrance is blocked up by 17 baulks to protect the Christmas lights within from wild seas.
Love the view…
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