High on the cliff path:
my fingers in wind
freshly passed across
the pewter sea
holding this pen, cold,
cold, colder now
with the sight of rain
fleeing the hills
of County Wicklow
I turn expecting to see
your profile
framed against Lyn's
sock rolled up to the calf
of Snowdon, then
nestling here against the toes
at the foot of Uchmynedd
I seek your hand and there is
only dry gorse, reluctant heather
Below these cliffs
swept by gulls and ravens
the sea touches the rocky base
in an endless, restless, breathless
turn and reflect, back, swept again,
swept back, restless, no end
only, only
a cold, cold kissing of the land