#headland

The wind is whining like a restless child, No longer fierce, but no longer mild. It tugs at the hem of a winter coat, With a hollow, thrumming, uncertain note.

I look for the light I loved as a boy, A ghostly gold, a sudden joy. It catches the salt on the window pane, Before the sky turns back to rain.

The ice has thinned to a shimmering skin, Letting the soul of the season in. Tender green knuckles punch through the silt, Before the frost-fringe starts to wilt.

The sky is a wash of bruised, cold blue, Where the iron grey gives way to the new. By the Heugh where the salt spray stings the air, The sharp scent of life is everywhere.

A herring gull cries, a lonely sound, As the crashing tide beats the rocky ground. But golden heads of daffodils, Brave the damp and the morning chills.

They nod to the gale with a yellow flare, To prove that the sun is finally there.

At the Headland, the rocks intone their ancient chant.

The beach is awash with pebbles, seaweed and shale.

O I know that I stand on significant ground

As awe and wonder permeate each firm texture!

The gulls' cries uncover myriad queer secrets.

I glimpse the tern's swift flight via reflective pools.

It arcs and jinxes through the salted air of spring,

In and out of sight. Microcosms of delight

Greet me in the gleaming high tides, wave after wave.

Under cerulean skies, I imbibe soft rays

Of soothing light, as the past spreads warm memories.

And I know that this coast- line is embedded in

My very bones. O it rejects Modernity's

Weak, sullied flesh and centres its curious guests!

It seems to know, how the heart easily fractures,

And provides a robust refuge for those who're lost.