Here where winds blow unheard
Atlantic skies surrender hope,
Incomers sit in cars to stare at the Sea.

Out there on the waves no-one watches the Land
where ruins slowly crumble,
where walkers comb the wilding gorse.

The cyclops lighthouse pirouettes
it blinks where darkened time forgets,
some hidden scapes remain untouched.

Stone stacks idly finger the smokeless sky,
the air too rarified that men might work
where empty windowed homesteads die.

Signposts point to further places
beyond these scorched earth empty spaces,
here where people pass like clouds.

© Wolfgar 2020