At the end, there is always the sea.
Nothing survives but these rocks.
In our imagination,
the ragged knight still faces the sunset,
as the holed stone breathes the ocean.

This land exists in myth,
though the rounded sea granite claims permanence.
The softness of the headland,
cosseted in grasses and sweet heather.
The waves below tell tales of lost Lyonnesse.

Here I will remain, entranced in this sunset place,
when mortality inevitably lets me down.
Scatter my ashes here, let me forever hear the sea,
lie soft abed the grass, anchored to this coast by rock.

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