Paul is a member of our online community
Perhaps your green lanes will remember when,
Our dust chased down to the sea,
Cars spilt out our children in warbands,
To scour your rocks, and ravage quiet sands with crossed tracks, dammed harbours, and mighty castles.
And the squeals, as we tumbled over in our race from the surf that echoed from rock to rock.
Little brown cove, you were lit up that year,
With our long adventures and games,
We gazed, some of us, at stars, listening to thumping seas on hardened rocks,
Trekked in twilight heather and gorse.
Cold rain lashed place, granite walled, desolate cottage.
The echoes have faded into silence.