Far out a distant murmur of the surf,
a silver thread of foam against the darkening sky.
Above the cliffs the seagulls fly.
Their plaintive cry
echoes with haunting sadness,
resounds around the engine houses' crumbling walls.
Seaweed lies forsaken on the sculptured sand
and limpets cling with blind determination
in faith the water will return once more.
And will it Lord?
Will the tide turn
as we cling,
limpet-like
to pews and pulpits, the hymn book rocks of other times?