A sea wind
Strafes the land
With sun scold
And cloud shadow,
And skylarks hunker,
Warbling in the low gorse,
And bluebells weather
On the seaward slope,
And foxgloves sturdy in the verge
Allow bees their leeward staircase.

The sea is to the full horizon.
And beyond, there is likely
More for thought, for the nothing
In the globe’s curve holds the eyes
To distant possibility: and to the mind
bestows its ponderous question mark.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.