by Annina Melliger
A cold place, yet dry, this Plymouth must be;
Only the chilly spray of the sea
Moistens the air and dampens the hair
Of the lone human, standing in prayer
Atop the cliffs, looking down
At the grey waves moan.
The lighthouse, also alone,
Withstands the force beating upon it,
Patiently waiting for the beloved ship,
Her who carries precious cargo home.
Having now set imaginative eyes upon the sea
And paddled in the waters of that English Channel,
The view is different; that expanse streaming from the Plym in reality
Is not as sullen when foreigner sits next to Janner.
Many a day is bright and sunny on the Hoe,
The mutant sea gulls the only nuisance.
So now there are hoards of standing, sitting, surfing students
Jumping off those cliffs into the rocks below.
Yet, the girl and her sailor linger on in the minds of the Plymouthians,
And the lighthouse, now replaced, remains a beacon to the past of these lands.
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