Kirk Ward

There are eagles here, so I hear

Flight feathers stretched like grasping fingers

They are fishermen, and robbers

Raptors in baggy brown trousers 

Searing wind scours the cliff top, as frothing

white horses charge at brittle sandstone

the winter sea is brown and restless

Sea thrift and salt stains frame the day

Cold dark mud clings underfoot and protests at every step

through slithering and clinging cliff gorse 

chattering hedgerows and grass

Our hopes pass

in an aquamarine crash

where blood-coloured weeds and the corpses of cuttlefish lay

There are eagles here

Not too far away

Kirk Millis-Ward is a former journalist and publisher sector communications professional who writes poetry and short stories. He lives in a smuggler’s cottage by the sea with his wife and son. His work explored neurodiversity, love and loss.