Cliffs

A poem written while commuting

By René Dee

Upon a cliff top where sea birds soar,
Each morning I take flight
To pit against age and its ever closing door,
The battle never won: a constant fight.
In extreme conditions, or simply sublime,
The body is willed against time.

When the wind shrieks and when all Hell is loose,
Not even the gulls enjoy,
As the sea unleashes its fury like some demented sluice,
Was it also like this when at Troy?
What little survives on cliff tops so bare,
Gets eaten by rabbits that come out, when they dare.

But come rain or shine, the cliff top is a haven
For reflection and time to unwind,
And like the Tower, will collapse without Raven.
The views and the vistas help keep open mind,
Taking strides, reaching out, for what reason?
For the sake of my health: I am a man for all seasons.

God, how I love desolation and quiet;
Pounding feet set up rhythms I hum.
Not a soul to be seen, nor to invite;
Only once in a while a beach bum.
It's a fright and a scare when we meet there at dawn,
Me in bright singlet and he with wide yawn.

It's the pain that I love; it gives strength to go on.
I'm a masochist: it's true really true.
For the blood does pump red, not insipid nor wan,
Not cold like the sea, nor the colour of blue.
Whoever gives in or may simply wane,
Will fade in a fog of disdain.

Upon a cliff top where sea birds soar,
Each morning I take flight.
It's been ten long years, fast approaching a score,
I've thought of the world and I've thought of man's plight.
I've lived my whole life upon flint, rock and chalk,
A dedicated journey from which I'll not balk.