Poem by Alan Whitfield. Up High

Up High 

Up high.
The coast line
The drop
An island below
its emerald coat glitters gold 

The waves attack.
From the front
to the back.
Its light shines on
for lost souls.

The white dots are just birds
or maybe they are words
of people who went and never come back.

I watched euros sing.
On a path of concrete so long.
The wave crashed the chorus
breaking white before us.

On the edge of the world
with south stack before us.

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