Poem: Tintagle


A bit more time. A bit more tea
sipped in the shadows,
in the empty bar in the off hours, gazing
over the deep blue Irish sea,
looking for the ghosts of kings
real and imagined, taking in the paths just outside,
the ones that lead down to Merlin’s Cave,
waiting for low tide and the opportunity to find
a single stone, unheralded, simple,
black and white and worn,
a talisman that, when you hold it still
reminds you of the sea.

About this poem.

I tend to pick up stones from places I visit. I hold them and the whole place comes back to me, the look of it, the feel of it, the sounds and smells. It is how I keep from going mad with wanderlust. A special kind of magic.

The picture was taken at the King’s Arms Hotel in Tintagle, England. One of my favorite places. The little boy is my son, now all grown up.



  1. I tend to pick up stones too. It’s just not a very practical collection to drag around! more than half a century ago I visited a friend who was staying at her grandmother’s house which overlooked the sea near Tintagle. Beautiful.

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