The wind on the summer moor is bright with the breath
Of a thousand white gulls as they soar through the heath,
And a still ivory flag on a cottage by the stones
Stands, uncared for and alone.
The sea roars on: there is foam on the heels
Of the brassy, lichen covered ship rusted over steel
And a girl in brown stockings stands on the cliff
Where the gulls fly by and the summer winds shift.