The scents have ripened -
sea grass blowing like early wheat,
warmed barnacles of shells and rocks
giving up a sweet salt.
Wind signals yellow flower-drops
in and out of prickled shrubs
like tiny lights.
Slanted inland, limbs of trees -
fringed new green -
heave like the foamed waves, again,
Here you can wander day-long
under the slashed cries of gulls,
the bracken tastes and slushed sounds
lapping at the weight of things.