This silent place, last to be created.
A lonely sentinel, watching out
across, the Bristol Channel,
icy water, lapping at his feet
beneath the distant, audience of stars.
With his shield of slate, held up high
against the ever present, threat of storm.
Stoic he stands, in desolation,
strong against, the cold.
Short cropped grass, clinging to his
thin, and barren soil,
wafted by, a tickle of breeze.

I too stand alone, gazing from his point
as the sun rises up to throw beams
of liquid gold across this spit of land,
jutting out
defiant against the waves.
The folk tales tell, that
when God made the world
this point was last to be created.
Supposedly when
the apocalypse comes
it shall be the first place
seized by the wrath of hell.

And so I stand watching the dawn, as
a tempest born out across
the vast Atlantic,
no longer contained, rushes
toward the land, bent on ravaging
Morte’s beautiful isolation.
An army of waves,
each larger, than the last,
throw themselves, upon,
his shield, of slate,
which has weathered, since time forgotten.
But now, I see a crack,
open up, in his armour.
The slate, crumbles
beneath the, relentless onslaught.
His steadfast, vigil is broken,
he yields, this dawn.
Winds which, before caressed
the gorse, like lovers
in the night, rend the limbs
from these, thorny shrubs.
Now all defence, has failed,
even my own, will falters.

So, having fled
from Morte point,
to a place of warmth and shelter.
Hands wrapped around
a drink of bitter black
brought from distant lands
with the characteristic hubris of man
to satisfy my desires.
I ponder a time foretold
where like this storm
the armies of perdition
shall corrupt this place sublime
with irresistible damnation.