Sheep-cropped turf stretches out as my feet connect with all my Gower ancestors who worked on this same land, in a blur of wind as the year ditched winter when lambs were light-born on this same cliff edge in hollows for lying-in beds.  Hungry raptors swoop and hang above.  Watching. Waiting.  Hopeful.  

 

 This was the place I

 brought  you again and again

 to gull-cry spaces.

 

 I lie down here on

 cold grass,  my head  to the wind.

 I look on tempests.

 

Short blades shake in personal storms.   The wind drops, stone sudden.  There is a movement of white light across emerald.  

 

Who is this walking

towards  me now?  I watch you

tip your head to rain.

 

 Needles slash across

 your eyes and mine.  Now this storm

 is right above us. 

 

 I get to my feet

 to greet you although I know

 we meet  in my mind.

 

You stop. You stretch out

your arms.  I run towards you.

We collide in time.