Kilve

Imagine hooded figures,
priests and smugglers
from the corner of your eye,
through the arch 
of blue lias random rubble,
founded dissolved gutted
now ruin.

At the sea edge prehistory is silent,  
but you can almost hear incantations
and smell the burning brandy,
sense spiralling bone fragments, 
the ghost of bobbing lanterns
in a squall, and chanted supplications.

The tumble and weeds echo,
shreds of hooded habits, 
crested traces left in pebbles,
on beaches of memories of 
rafts of centuries left unfinished
spilling into now.