The Atlantic howls
Wet and windy
Boughs and branches bending.

The sea a stew
Of white foam
Against the black abyss

Deep in the moving bowels of the ocean
Is a calling.
A restless voice like reeds ripping the wind
Beckoning you to the foreshore

Torn from rest, you are pulled
As the wind places its magnet on the buttons of your nightshirt
Tossing your coat off the hook to clothe you

The tide pulls your feet
Step by quickening step
Towards the sand

Only now can you
Stop to gaze at the clouds
Scudding across the moon
Like flounder across the seabed.

All rages around you
And yet, silence descends
Like the ringing of tinnitus in your ears
And you are told what it is you are called to hear...

High up
Is the window
Where the little tree gazes
Out, at the big tree.
A curving bay that frames
The white-walled sanctum,
Bright, quiet and airy
Like a Methodist chapel
At rest.

A simple wooden table
Holds a delicate tree rooted
In a small, square ***
As it gazes
Through the glass
At its giant cousin.

The Autumn comes outside
Its herald carried
By little, yellow leaves
Borne against a backdrop
Of lush, rain-wet green.

Trezūnger, last house along the esplanade
Stares out towards Polruan Point. In the growing storm
I feel Atlantic.
St Catherine stands
Over the harbour, laying her claim to the sea
Under the watchful gaze of the eye of Neptune. All the while
The trees whisper to the waves in the wind and release
Leaves and autumnal fragrance. Clustered cottages shoal
Whitewashed in the lee by the ford-over-the-stones-by-the-beach.
The tide and the air pressure low as nature ***** a deep breath ready for the storm

The window is ***** and smudged
But beyond lies perfect blue.
Crisp cut against glowing walls lit yellow
By the sunset's paradise kingdom.
Endless and abounding in his kingfisher coat
The sky swoops down to the water's surface
To ****** our hearts from our *******