Two Poems

A yield

No cliffs, only a rounding off into the sea.
The pasture slopes and just gives way.
There is this shape along the inlet
where breakers shy from digging at the edge,
though some days they turn.

When I am down there, do not come looking for me.
It is exposed. There is a blame of wind.
And if the turf goes, there is no hitching you back
up from that hem.
For a moment you will have silver waves below your feet,
then it will be all cold noise and traffic.
You are on the verges of a great highway there.

It is where I find myself on the long days of a good season.
You will know them
because I will refuse to come up home
even when you call out the time.
I will be out of earshot, thinking,

Those are the millimetres I must plough.
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