The sea has cast its books as spray,
Its prayers are fresh with western words.
The sea – the circling sunrise sea –
Has sealed the island’s lips and lives
For here the world can wash and wait,
Can hurl its gales and comets crash,
For here the world means nothing more
Than mysteries from a distant age.
Upon the wall the wheatear flicks
Its tail and picks at thistle threads
From interlocking beds and dips
Away towards the castle rock.
It seems that time has lost its way,
For here the sea turns all to spray.