LATE in the evening
At Tintagel most fitting
Like Isolde and Tristan
Upon the high cliff top
The sun's slow decline to
A scarred charcoal line
Its terminal rays sad setting the distance
Drawing an end to the day and our time.
The warmth of the summer left too far behind us
The weakness of will and the skin's soft corruption
Worn down to the bone and hardened to stone
Holding the fossil that had once been your hand
And the churn of the shingle and the waves' wanton crashing
Crushing the tired last trace of the day
The chill of the sea-mist
All ceasing of colour
Replaced by a shroud of a permanent grey.
(c) Stephen Evans 2015
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