Aberaeron II

Like the last poem – written on a visit in January.

 

Here, on the edge of home

Cold blasts clatter

Whine and whistle through the ropes,

The rigging that line the harbour.

This night we can stagger

But smile as our painted facades

Are whipped by these bitter

Emissions of ice.

 

This is a place of rest;

Round shouldered men

Follow dogs to the sea’s call

Accepting the given routine.

Above though, in the winds,

A grim struggle for survival

Is hymned by the sad mew

Of the fading buzzards.

 

Now, it is the kites who rule.

Borne by Nature’s

Inexorable tides, surfing

The wild waves of history

With a confident turn

Of tail feathers. They lift our eyes

From the mud sodden tracks,

And the kiss of brambles.

 

Beauty in this hinterland

Lacks the glamour

Of wilder lands, its cliffs

As pit workings, as demolished

Ruins, its beaches lined

With plastic, and tumbling stones grey,

Industrial, dust clad

Unwashed by the brown sea.

 

No more the boat builder’s hammer,

No coal on the quayside,

No song of the railway.

Glory in this land is found

Echoing back

Through faced stones and cobbled

Yards, and in the smell of the winds

Briny, robust, spray soaked.

 

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