pulled by a thick wind.
God was by the pier. Once
confused. It fell back
slow, in its own heaven.
To Wait for Fair Weather
To wait for fair weather
was foolish, having come so far.
So that morning after cold toast, tea,
rashers and eggs, in damp salt wet, we walked,
the two of us: we passed Higher Sea Lane,
strode down by the King George, across
the Char’s swan bridge, and then up,
up Stonebarrow Hill, one side a rushy swale
gone white mist almost the shape of a barn –
a steep ascent beside runnels, last bluebells,
sword ferns, maidenhair, each step
not knowing, each look and pause
a difference, even the weather
unsure, half inclined to bucket
or merely thicken – and then that first fog
cleared, all the shrouded down meadow
come at last red clover and yellow
and lime grass wet enough to shine
all the way to ocean, grey blue,
murmur at a cliff, flattened stalks
signposting our long gaze
to hedge-rowed, green-rumpled pasture hay
backed by a great rise: salt calm it was –
an unbalancing, like grief lifting,
distance and bloom, an afternoon
wide opened, best company, no hurry, sun.
