Inlet

An inlet breathes between the cliffs,
A quiet mouth where sea and stone entwine,
Its waters murmur, soft as lullabies,
Carrying the scent of kelp and brine.

At dawn the tide lifts silver ribbons,
That curl around the sand‑kissed rocks,
While gulls wheel in a lazy chorus,
Their cries echoing off the hollows.

Fishermen launch their modest boats,
Their oars dipping in rhythm with the swell,
Each ripple tells a tale of old voyages,
Of salt‑stained nets and stories they excel.

When evening falls, the inlet darkens,
A mirror for the bruised‑purple sky,
The last light lingers on the water’s skin,
A quiet promise that the night will comply.

Here land and ocean hold a tender truce,
A sheltered cradle where the wild can rest,
In every inlet Britain’s coastline finds,
A gentle sigh, a place to be caressed.