Tregardock

A mist that from the moor arose

    In sea-fog wraps Port Isaac bay,

The moan of warning from Trevose

    Makes grimmer this October day.

Only the shore and cliffs are clear.

    Gigantic slithering shelves of slate

In waiting awfulness appear

    Like journalism full of hate.

On the steep path a bramble leaf

    Stands motionless and wet with dew,

The grass bends down, the bracken’s brown,

    The grey-green gorse alone is new.

Cautious my sliding footsteps go

    To quarried rock and dripping cave;

The ocean, leaden-still below,

    Hardly has strength to lift a wave.

I watch it crisp into its height

    And flap exhausted on the beach,

The long surf menacing and white

    Hissing as far as it can reach.

The dunlin do not move, each bird

    Is stationary on the sand

As if a spirit in it heard

    The final end of sea and land.

And I on my volcano edge

    Exposed to ridicule and hate

Still do not dare to leap the ledge

    And smash to pieces on the slate.