Clarion

Tide In at the Cliffs

Today it's hard to jump from lump to lump,
the seaweed slippy, unpredictable,
a crisis beyond reflex management;
and the barnacled grip would rasp a wrist
that slipped, or graze a leg that boot-tread failed.

The tide in, running sea between the leaps,
and muddied foam the scum you plunge through - in
for wet foot, or for worse - might shiver you.

We get there, Joe and I, no incident,
where Brendan lounges on his rocky couch;
clasped in his grasp the silver foil declares,
his sandwich's 'nommed', swaps foil for salted crisps.

"'Xcuse me. Is there a way back up the cliffs?"
Young lady (mid twenties) tad serious,
(her young man, hoodied, hundred yards away)
lifts up from preoccupation to ask
this old flat-capped hippy, 'mostly harmless'.

But no, they trudge back past us.
___________________________"It's too far?"
I ask.
____She says, "He's just had surgery,
two weeks back. We'll not walk so far today."
"There you go," says Brendan.
_________________________"Mm. Yes," I say,
after they toddle on, his cowled head down.

How lucky he is to be in her hands
I think, and hope the best for them, touch wood,
which is my walking stick, and we stride off
to where they could have turned in up away
to clifftops.
_________But I want the seasound near -
so back we leap about the tumbled slabs
at the cliff base, Brendan disappearing
into distance, Joe keeping pace with me.