Here again, at the last grasp of land,
where hard stone crumbles and falls,
sheer height the undoing.
Lost to water rituals, the stone
drags itself over, down
to join the broken masses far below.

Then sea smoothed, scoured to sand.
Damp pervades everywhere,
ice sears into stone, breach to beach.
The constant sea, swept out again,
while the wind cleaves up the falling stream.
Rambled and furrowed, the thick soil clags,
chafed old path, deep, yet cloistered.

Weeds disperse colour,
pinks in the wan light,
greens against the gloom.
Late lamenting gulls, stoop
for respite from the day.
But here the land ends,
assuredly abrupt, it falters at last.

Out from where the sea
blends in the sky,
and the lighthouse pricks the view,
assuming dangers.
Roughness the predominant quality,
tough stone, crisp lichen, bitter soil,
coarse sand, sharp horizon,
harsh weather, cold seas, hard waves.
There is no beauty here, but awe.
This is it, no further.

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