Here the rocks of time stand,
Bulwark between the sea and land;
Wearing nature’s lichen coat,
Trim for the cauldron’s endless moat.
Where birds take rest in the sun,
As they their daily sojourn run;
And fishermen go out to reap
A harvest from the rolling deep.
Forefathers stood at this same scene,
Then to leave for pastures green;
As ancestors came to find this shore,
Perhaps a thousand years before.
Whins from the hill like a curtain sweep,
And gnarled thorns their vigil keep;
As curling lips of wave caress the sand,
Tide in retreat out from the land.
Splendour of springtime’s midday ray,
Shines on the foraging Seal at play;
One doesn’t need to wander and rove;
Heaven is a Downshire cove.
Monty Alexander 5.3.04