The Tearing Ledge

Islands, illusions,
our dark wrecking spell,
five twisted pins at St Warna’s Well.

Islands, illusions
in a Bryher of mist,
Bishop Rock Lighthouse serpent-kissed.

Islands, illusions
from East to West Porth,
seas without God, skies without north.

Islands, illusions
near this world’s edge,
storm petrels circle the Tearing Ledge.

Islands, illusions
on lost sailors’ lips,
the Dogs of Scilly devour their ships.