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Poetry

The Combe

Silver-blue air,
a warm, basking sea-wind,
bottomless rock-pools;
there was no tomorrow.

Time wasn’t needed
nor space any more
it was all in that place,
enough to survive…
anything.

The wave-lapped sand,
grains to build castles
that never eroded with tides
or moods.

Heart beats in hills
descending to dunes
with the whistles of grass
playing, feet keeping time.

The combe knew it all,
for if anyone
spent their whole life
in its hands
there would always
be something to find.