The beach at Maidencombe is reached
by countless steps of well-worn stone,
which open to a camber cove
of sand and shingle. On my own
I sit and contemplate the cliffs;
their curves embrace the open sea.
The sandstone, richly rugged-red,
is topped by many a wind-blown tree.
And clinging to the craggy slopes
are patchwork flora, clumps of green.
From overhead the swooping gulls
disturb the silence. In this scene
salt water laps and agitates
the sea-weed caught in tidal flow,
while crested white, the crystal waves
fill thirsty rock pools, feet below.
A hue of blues that span the sky
create a post-card, summer bright.
No hint of grey unwelcome cloud
to break the vista. Thoughts take flight
to bygone days, two hundred years
when others came across this bay.
The panorama stays unspoiled
and still can thrill the heart today.