This is a coast of wrecks, of conventional

tempests and unexpected rocks, mists, fogs.

St Patrick, not long from dismissing

the serpents of Ireland, clung to an outcrop

slippery with seaweed, loud with skuas.

Legend built a church on the cliffs above.

The Royal Charter, steam clipper, laden

with gold and souls, Australia bound

from Liverpool, foundered in haling distance

of the shore, one long October night of gales.

A parish churchyard is full of strangers.

Low water exposes the remains

of a lifeboat station’s high wooden pillars

held in rough concrete blocks. A sloop in full sail

could slide down the steep ramp in seconds.

In less than sixty years boats launched from here

saved more than sixty lives. Generations

of local men – farmers and fishermen,

blacksmiths and shepherds – along this coast,

merely for virtue’s reward, risking their own

saved the lives of strangers.