cliffs, sentry, and the Atlantic


a crude arena
overlooks the entire scene
a sole craggy sentry
stands watch, defiant

the Master of the Atlantic
hurling swells of sea
with increasing determination

blue to white
endless ranks dance against
endless rock

fog slips past my face
over the edge before me
with no fear

unlike my small, measured steps
not too close, yet I must

and I become blindingly aware
that all great stories
flow in one form or another
from holy places such as this

the cliffs below my feet
give way slowly
but they will not yield today



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