We came to a meadow by where the sea crept in,
where her breath was light with marram
and the meadowsweet danced.
There was an Island, left on a shell-strewn
strand once the tide had ebbed away.
There were terns, their shrill cry she carried
down the long summer days.
She brushed aside the long sweet grass and
sang along the pebbled stream, its waters
cool and clear and pure.
She whipped our eyes with salt and grit,
her white horses hoofbeats bitter and then,
once we understood her,
she gave to us her soul.
So few we are but blessed.