THE HEADLAND

Beside the steep, rough pathway to the headland

blackberries are purpling. As we pass,

stone chats – with their melodiously

metallic call – rise from feasting on the fruits.

Once through the kissing-gate at the top

we are on the smooth turf shorn by walkers,

sheep and winds. At sea level the bay

seemed crystalline, jade. Up here the sea

is a lexicon of blues. The horizon –

empty of shipping and coasts – is a curve

of geometric perfection. The weather

is still, but the waters shift, ripple, swell.

There is a pre-human silence here – the airs,

the tides lapping at the cavernous cliffs

below. A pod of dolphins breaks the surface.

A pair of gannets dives into a darker shade

of water that may be a shoal of fish.

Later, we will pick some blackberries

as we descend the path, scattering

the clamorous stone chats.