The wind blows wild in winter
On the basalt beach.
Seaweed slime and tide-wrack
Strewn along the cold shore.
A fish box and a bottle,
Hailstones gathered by a burn.
No December place to be,
In the smiling sun, quartz sparkled;
Harebells, heather here and pink sea thrift;
Laughter trickled between the rocks,
Pebble splash, ducks and drakes,
A farm in the sand, of sticks and stones;
A child in clover.
Where has my farm gone, Daddy?
To the sea, my child, the gulls and the sea.
Will it come back, Daddy?
Constantly, my child,
To you, and me.