You have to
go all the way out
if you want
to feel it,
past the
neat hedgerows,
the lively fuchsia
and montbretia,
past meadow sweet and purple loose strife,
the robin
and blackbird tweets,
even past
the higher pitched
chattering of
the stonechat.
The vintage
caravan park and the Shiphouse
mark the
threshold, from hereon
it’s all gorse
and heather and bare rock
and in the
air the whistle of sandpiper,
and the sea crow swooping and soaring
and the Atlantic
Wild reaching in,
fanning out,
taking you with it.
I could definitely paint from this!
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