I grew up on another island
With the mackerel man and his evening shouts
Down quiet roads we rode our steeds
Through the gorse and fern-swathed land
To the beaches pure and empty
And the smell of sea-washed sand
The past is another island
Sepia toned and fishy boned
Limpet mines and limpet crabs
Winkles in a canvas bag
Doors unlocked
Ships on the rocks
Craning in at the
Old White Rock
Stephen A. Roberts
Image : Copyright Pete Davies
