Past the decommissioned boarding houses -
mostly now apartments, mostly versions
of Views of Mourne and Castle, Mourne
this morning touched by snow, wreathed in
the daft assurance of a peasant
wearing a new and beguiling hat -
past the tennis courts, the Peel Sunset
Bowling Club (metaphors begone),
the coast begins, set free from promenade
and sea wall, unfurling itself
the deasil way. On the rocks
the gulls speak fluent fishwife,
although for all I know it might be
good Old Norse, saying the ageless things.
Fish! Creek! Strangers!
Remember this, one shore along: climbing
St Bees' red sandstone paths, the Island laid out
smokily to westward; imagine this
in Connemara, in California, and so on.
(Even the Dutch draw a watery line.)
Always the same, the taking off
into the contemplation of the edge,
the kingdom of white horses
and the ever receding west.