Find new land…

Leave the red-rock cliff
beneath the Gothic tow’r,
its spireless peak o’erwatching,
to sail toward two
ice-cleft cliffs,
unspanned ‘breast tide-peaked blue.

Corm’rant swims
seagull waters…

Vessel flaring wing-
widths far to
find sky-river currents;
its crow’s nest green
‘n white whilst waves
the blood-hued dragon cross.

A chilling
tide – 
sky-river’s coursing.

The river’s mouth,
that sweeps below
the glen-green Celtic isle,
now opens up
to see far dist’
horizon helmed by fire.


Leave to find
new land – but
what to call it?

Now rest, relic,
alongside industry…

Now sleep in
seagull sounds
‘n sun-dried ink…

2 Thoughts

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