When Catrin was a small child
She thought the foghorn moaning
Far out at sea was the sad
Solitary voice of the moon
Journeying to England.
She heard it warn “Moon, Moon”,
As it worked the Channel, trading
Weather like rags and bones.
Tonight, after the still sun
And the silent heat, as haze
Became rain and weighed glistening
In brimful leaves, and the last bus
Splashes and fades with a soft
Wave-sound, the foghorns moan, moon –
Lonely and the dry lawns drink.
This dimmed moon, calling still,
Hauls sea-rags through the streets.
by Gillian Clarke
from The Sundial (Gwasg Gomer, 1978)
Rambling At The Bridge Head 