It was blowing a gale the day that we walked
intent on climbing the Worm’s Head,
but the force of the wind on causeway of rocks,
combined with the tide, saw our plan dead.
To Rhossili we turned to further our jaunt
along the road to the high Down,
rising steeply and bleakly length of the beach,
pale green of grass with the dark brown
leaves of bracken and peat by slipping of streams:
while stared wild ponies and white sheep,
we inspected stone piles – pre-history rocks
where ancients lay in their long sleep,
scattered cairns from the Bronze Age close to the peak –
and there we looked on the pale sea,
churned by squalls into foam cascades as they danced
and surfed to shore on a beach spree.
Through the churchyard we passed, but paused and observed
unusual scroll among headstones,
on the gate were a sun-dial, rope in a coil,
both carved reminders of dead bones,
Evans lost in the ice on Scott’s final venture,
a local man at the South Pole,
who was born up a lane in house with a plaque
near ruined barn and a dew-hole.
With the wind unabated, walking now over,
fresh bodies getting to feel stale,
to the Worm’s Head Hotel we sought some refreshment,
relaxed with cheeses and real ale.
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