In Cloughton Bay

Three parallel ranks of breakers rode
to suicide attack. Their green glass flanks,
lifting, folding, smashed into
billions of white shards across the shore.

My spirit boldly surfed their backs.
My hair danced in the wind
as I set foot along the cliff–top track
I took for granted forty years ago.

But gasping lungs and trembling knees soon learnt
the roller–coaster route was not for them.
If I had only heeded, ninety candles
on my birthday cake had told me so.