Cliff Top Tea

This skyline is a pale bleed, cloud into sea, dissolving. The sea is salt-milk, wind churned, flung in daubs, white froth on fish-silver sheen. Above the wind-line clouds edge inland, sun on their backs, grey fleece and opal. A three-quarter moon in the clear sky sits, pulling tides.
Mr and me, in the car with the bad starter motor, sit, eat bargain bucket cream tea from regrettable plastic.
Gulls are calling, in flight, at the fierce air.
Gorse shivers non-stop.
This show is fantastic.
It has everything.
Cloud swallows moon.
Crumbs of scone skim out into the road.


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