Fastness

Across the isthmus
and the broken neck of dykes
we leave the low boasts
of cattle, the sight
of dry fields combed flat
to baize.
Here, in this fastness
light and oceans blaze,
tides collide,
heathers swell like the sea,
and there are sounds
on the edge of hearing;
gulls like old regrets,
the soft wash of water
like a mother’s breath.
On the foghorn steps
you stop to rest.
You are full, luscious,
and this, more then ever,
seems the place for us,
not just because eveything born here
seems blessed,
but because we need the extraordinary
now, to forgive, to forget.