Il fait du brouillard
The blinded lighthouse
Calls out in the gloom
Its foghorn telling the misty minutes
Like a doleful speaking clock.
There’s a Hebridean sting of salt
In the sea-smoke wrapped around the headland
Like a scarf; and the summer beaches
Are veiled and secret, empty, Arctic white.
The gulls and waders could tell me
Where I am; beneath the sky-cloak
They chatter heedless, brash and jeering,
Safe in their local knowledge.
Not that I’m asking. A dog, the dunes
And the distant booming of the surf
On the reefs far out are all the signs I need:
I am here. Now. And all is well.
Gonecycling (again) 
Love the scene you create with your words…made me want to be there.
Already wishing I was back there..! Thanks, Charles.
This is beautiful, very descriptive, serene……. I enjoy reading your poetry. Thank you for sharing…….
Thank you, John – will come over and have a read of your work soon.
Ah Nick,
I was there beside you on the sand.
And I feel the better for having been there 🙂
Good to have you back
I hope you had a good holiday
David
It was wonderful, thank you. Too short, of course..! Glad you liked the poem; I know you’re a ‘beach man’ yourself.
The coast of Brittany has good memories for me too, I hope you enjoyed les vacances 🙂 I could feel the fresh breeze in your poem. And it is always good to know you are where you are!
Hello Ina – Brittany already feels a long way away after four days back in the UK. Happily, I’ve brought back lots of good memories to sustain me! Thanks for the welcome home!
You’re welcome 🙂
So this is #1, I am looking forward to #2!