Worm’s Head (the Worm)
I met myself along the many ways;
the which-way ways of the muscle beds,
and barnacled greys of the rocks across
the causeway to the Worm.
Renegade, on either side, the sea threatens
to renege on a long time contract,
and claim us for another sad sea shanty.
So we push against the wind that
struffles our hair like grandpa does,
and it brings a tear to our eyes;
for we are dazzled, stiff-necked,
by the kestrel hanging on the blue wind
who sees the shine upon the rocks
that have been there for the many hands
that have climbed over many hands,
on that precarious way.
On the one side,
the seal sea;
on the other,
the surf sea;
under the rock bridge,
(that of the quivering knees),
it is deep, and dark-down and blue.
All is beneath, on our final push to the end,
where, up on the head,
the Atlantic wind stretches the mind,
and we can taste the futures of past walkers,
who have stood this test of time.
Ever child’s story book of high adventure
wiggles through the wind grass,
and the small blue flowers;
so how can this be a sad day?
Because, there is a late summer rasp,
cold, even under this speeding sun.
I don’t think we will return this year,
I am sure we will not.
And so, we race the rain
that will watermark this day
in our memory book; and as we
step back on dry land
the sea rises and reclaims its right;
and so, everything is alright,
out on the Worm,
and here at home
where the curtains are drawn
across the running moon.