Trebarwith Strand

Raymond Friel

Evening station:
two bucket seats, glasses
on a handy sill.

The bristly sea
half-fills the big basin
of the headlands;

on lower slopes
crocosmia smoulders
in the coarse grass;

spill over the stone wall
of Treneglos

like a blousy barmaid
at the pumps).

The roofs of shops
(towers of beach clutter
locked in the dark)

draw the lazy
eye to the sun’s minted

The sky in this
lighter aquamarine,
just, than the sea.

Perfect, you said,
bar the off-centre plug
of bird-white rock.

That, you’d leave out
your composition: Sea,
mixed media.


Two hours before,
Sunday’s low-key high tide
prompted retreat

for sun-reddened,
half-cut generations
with Cool-It tubs

and rolled-up mats;
a wet suit dragged along
like the charred skin

of Icarus.
They stepped uncertainly
on slippy stones –

burbles of spume
prodding at red-raw heels –
nudging children,

steadying the old
onto the solid platform
of the world.