The morning grey is fading into colour.
Across the village, two pigeons squabble over rooftop landing rights.
Out by the headland water surges,
Playing gently with a rock.
I hear them clearly,
It is so quiet here.
Clouds are drifting by,
The whisper of their conversation
Just below hearing.
Almost audible.
It is so quiet here.
And what would clouds talk about, I wonder?
If sea and birds would be still,
If they could only hold their breath a moment,
I might hear the clouds
And learn their secrets.
It is so quiet here.
Portloe, Cornwall, 27/7/14, 06:30.