Along Lundy’s western coast,
Where the Atlantic sea hits the shore,
And crashes in mighty waves,
Upon the defiant granite rock,
A path down from the moorland plateau,
Where sheep and goat lazily graze,
Holds fast to the cliff’s contours,
And leads down to the ruined battery.
Down that steep and narrow path,
I walked that bright and late October,
Till at the bottom I came across,
A ruined stone cottage naked and bare,
With tumbled walls and vacant doorways,
And windows that looked to the opposite shore,
Where stone dipped down into the sea,
And waves lapped at dark and secret caves.
But further on, down yet more steps,
I came across the battery itself,
A stubby, squat and ruined shell,
Hunched right by the edge of a short cliff,
Close to that roaring sea,
And there it sat and gazed defiantly,
Across the stretch of textured water,
Of the open Bristol channel.
On either side of that gaunt stonework,
Stood two large cannons of iron,
Now rusted with sea air and time,
Standing mute where once they shouted,
Their angry voices over the waves,
And planted fear deep in the hearts,
Of any sailors out to sea,
That traversed the crested waves.
The place now reeks of time long passed,
Of man’s folly and his brief span on earth,
For in that place of timeless splendour,
Where the sea dances in constant motion,
And the wind sings an eternal song,
Man is but an impudent imposter,
And the cliffs that stand there all about,
Laugh and pour scorn on all his feeble work.
(5/12/09)
