A Bay In Anglesey

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.