Croy Shore

There is a waterfall
that clatters down the cliff
like dropped stones.

It floods a bank
of yellow flags
and meets the tide

in rivulets carved
by flow and counterflow,
fresh joining salt.

Hazel and boulders
mark a line
between two worlds,

finches and warblers
confronting oystercatchers.
Blackthorn rooted

in the rock face
billows with wind.
Leaves strew the sand.

It is a border where
conflict has become
almost a partnership.