CLIFF ROAD TO WESTOWN

Banded in turquoise, sea meets sky

like the cut edge of frosted glass

smudged with icy  showers.

A translucent peach curtain hangs,

ruched and folded with the rain

that slides west under a grey ceiling.

Overhead, needle-beaked gulls thread the east wind

to sew the torn clouds back over the blue .

We go up through the woods where the night hides

in the tunnel of trees and out again into the fading day.

Across the ditches the coarse fields on the red cliffs

are knobbled with gorse bushes and tufty grass

like an old green bathrobe flung lumpily on terracotta.

The iron-grey tarmac, marbled with veins of  frozen water,

twists up to the end of the day and the purple mountains,

cut out and embossed on smoking yellow.

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