Cliff

The Cliff

On the salt‑soaked coast the cliff stands, a granite sentinel,
Its weathered face a map of weathered clues worn by the wind.
Above, gulls wheel in endless loops, where sky meets brine,
Their cries a furrowed echo through the high, head‑land.

The tide, relentless, hits the jagged stone, a drumbeat
of water meeting rock; foam flares like a silver flame,
and backs away into a polished sheen of relentless blue.
The cliff, unmoved, keeps its secret, an ancient, quiet game.

Evening drapes the world in bruised mauve and deep storm‑grey,
and as the horizon blurs, the cliff seems to sigh,
its ancient bones stretching in the wind that tastes the sea:
a lullaby of waves and silence, a promise to keep the sky.

Below, the cliffs' shadow paints the shore with a charcoal hush,
and a tram of pale gulls flickers past — the only traffic for the hush.

The cliff, standing lonely, holds the horizon in a hold,
a quiet sentinel of the coast, a promise of stories untold.