A Wild Inhabitation
They grounded their beast-
and bird-headed craft
on Braystones milling pebbles, at Silecroft
overlooked by dunes, on a beach of suave
slick mud up an inlet at Ravenglass.
A summer day. Standing on
a green grave
watching a breeze slowly heave and then pass,
stifled among yews, looking at their cross
carved rust-red sandstone honed on hot blue sky.
The fells mount up, Atlantic
pitch and toss
and swell of rock. Their mark is the long I,
five yards tall and ten centuries across.
They made land in ships
of dust. When the heart
describes itself, its pride is raised in art
and stands by lies though all of times denial.