At Pwllheli

At Pwllheli


One day at last you'll find me,
like an smooth, worn stone,
shaped by the careless, constant sea
and polished by the years.

I shall lie easy then
on the bright, sea shore,
Rounded and even, cold and hard to touch,
one stone amongst the others.
Some days half-hidden by black sea-weed, corks and wood,
rocked by by the restless, raking tide
and glistening in the sun.

But today I'm still sharp-shouldered,
rough edged, angular.
Don't jag your gentle feet on me, you children,
where I lie wincing in the scraping shingle.

Another storm, another grinding tide,
another feature finished, another corner gone.
The waves come roaring in
and set the stones a-dancing;
the foam subsides,
they all go roaring back.

One day at last
you'll find me
like an old, worn stone,
shaped by the sea and the years.