From the Cliffs

A midwinter day, pulled between rain
and sunburst. Gulls scream-circle
a hunting kestrel — even in
this wind, at that height, territorial.
A flicker of red, once more it hovers
with the calm poise of contemplative
or killer, then falls with a swift straightness
no leaf in autumn ever traces.
On the horizon, sun-rays slant from massed clouds,
stream through columns of rain-haze till that far
stretch of sea is shingled with light. High tide
keeps walkers from the shore but lures in surfers;
above marbling reefs of foam they stay their ground:
for whole moments, unassailable, soaring like birds.