Sunday Morning Poem by Matt Mooney

We thought the same on the shimmering sand,
By the towering cliffs with their tufts of green,
That here the time and the place was at hand
On a Sunday to savour the pleasure of being.

The passionate tide was out past the Point-
That Arc de Triomphe at the cliff’s high head;
The playful waves our fears did anoint:
‘To be or not to be’ that’s what Hamlet said.

Deep and black through the dark of the caves
Ran a ruthless river released by the sea:
Relentlessly entering the hall of Hades
Wherein no one would want ever to be.

So we looked aloft where the seagulls nest
In the cosy clefts high in rock above our heads;
In snow white pairs on their eggs they rest,
Screeching in bliss from their wedding beds.

Stack of shining rock red, black and brown,
With the water dripping from its sculpted face:
To circles wheeling when we both look down
Into the pool of sunlit water at its sandy base.

Between ebb and flow our life time is short:
Neptune she rinses out all her seaweed hair
In the tide when its high in this holiday resort.
It's often the sea as it sighs falls asleep there.