At swim, two swans in the bay,

Under the mountains’ shadow

Where the buoy-moored boats

Bob to the tide’s rhythm,

The glinting waves’ glissando

And the wind’s insistence.

 

Then behind, stands of pines rise

In rows up the hill, dark marching soldiers

Until they yield the bare flanks of Goatfell

And the skyline’s crazy crags,

Last whittled by icebergs

 

There are two rhythms working here:

Eternal and diurnal,

One made by mankind, as at the pier

Ferries come and go,

Disgorging their seafront processions.

 

Day-trippers, ice-cream drippers,

Golfers, kids in flip-flops,

Hikers, mountain-bikers,

Walkers, deer stalkers, all

Pass below the sleeping warrior

 

Yes, there are two rhythms here, and

The other is of tides and mountains,

Of waves, of gulls, of ever-changing sea; 

Some sort of paradox of permanence

That was, is now, and shall forever be.