In mid- winter, the Headland is a haunted place:
Where spectral longings hover like wounded angels;
Where soft silence lies as deep as December snow;
Where loneliness hangs, and lingers, like icicles;
Where nothing happens that has not happened before;
Where crude, grey- black sea foam licks a pebbled shore;
Where feral gulls glide over frosted, granite cliffs;
Where straggled strands of green seaweed cling to rock pools;
Where encrusted, fearful limpets are tightly locked;
Where cracked, coloured shells are crammed with whispered secrets;
Where bitter winds blow and howl like mad, long- lost souls,;
Where macabre crabs scuttle over old fish bones;
Where life limps along, despite the town\'s Christmas throng;
Where there are no flashing lights or seasonal cheers;
Only slow echoes of ancient murmurs and moans;
Where mundane clouds drift in ever darkening skies;
Where pollution turns pure water to inky blue;
Where discarded plastic mocks frayed, once golden, sands;
Where summer\'s dreams are buried under cold, hard stones;
Where spectral longings hover like broken angels;
Where Time itself seems frozen. And yet, I perceive
Delicate forms foreshadowing spring\'s awakening,
As little flowers of sumptuous violet, white
And flesh pink gently stir in salty, withered earth.