Night Walk to Peppercombe Beach
Late afternoon already, as we drop
down the unmetalled track to find the house;
watch the light slip from the day’s shoulders
while we unpack and settle, make the tea.
We trace the dark thread of the cutting through
the combe, listen for the wish of gravel,
feel for the slip of mud at the path’s edge,
follow the rings of the torch’s dim ellipse.
The slim-etched branches trace
the ribs of a nave as we process,
past the cry of a tawny owl, a crumbling barn
and three gates with their different latches.
The calm ceiling pierced by stars,
and you say ‘go on, count them!’
You cut a piece of the sky’s dark cloth
and lay it round me, kiss me with a smuggler’s tongue.
Nearing the cliff we hear the shifting stones,
the echo of the waves against the trees.
Next day we find the drop is sheer, the pebbles
we heard rolling in the surf are big as cats.
Beth Somerford‘s poems have appeared recently in Backlash, Brittle Star and The Interpreter’s House. Her pamphlet ‘Messing with Endings’ is available here. She is Director of Different Development in Brighton, and author of ‘Rhyme and Reason: The Poetry of Leadership’. Website – bethsomerford.com.