And she lies on the clifftop
The wind, breathing
Stirs the bay to frothing iceberg blue.
And she prays to the goddesses that inhabit these hills
To pull to safety
Her friends, on the rocks below.
Still the cross looms
And these cliffs remember, years ago
The men who climbed, through blinding snow
Clothed in salt crust and freezing oil
Yielding to the rough hands of country women,
And those forgotten building driftwood pyres on the shore.
Now the sun gilds waves that have touched sorrow
And still she lies, flush with the clifftop
And knowing that the forces of nature,
Though vast, expansive and oft unkind
Are at least, and in essence,
alive, alive, alive.