The sleepy sound of a tea-time
Slaps at the rocks the sun has dried,
Too lazy, almost, to sink and
Round low peninsulas pink with thrift.
The water, enlarging shells and sand,
Grows greener emerald out from
And brown over shadowy shelves
The waving forests of seaweed show.
Here at my feet in the short cliff
Are shells, dried bladderwrack, broken glass,
Pale blue squills and yellow rock roses.
The next low ridge that we climb
One more field for the sheep to
While, scarcely seen on this hottest of days,
Far to the eastward, over there,
Snowdon rises in pearl-grey air.
Multiple lark-song, whispering bents,
The thymy, turfy and salty
And filling in, brimming in, sparkling and
The sweet susurration of incoming sea.
