Cliff Ofelia ferch Rhos Salt spattered on chalk carves out the rough-hewn shape of thought:the cliff is a canvas where
they escape me, and become mammoths on sandstone, scattered by stick-figured spears.
Magpies perch listless as dew and wing their words over the sea.The water ripples their birdsong agon.
Clouds crowd in anticipation-I am the heavens surrogate on earththey would rapture me, and leave
the cliff empty as a forgotten age.The stones know no different.I am their occupying army.
I kick the stones,kick the moss,kick the cliff loose
so that landslipped rocks chase down the incline.The waves retreat-
capricious tide.Arrogant as weeds.Pretentious petrichor.
Dappled sun on dimpled seareaches over the horizonlike the old joke.

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