Sandmartins burrow through shifting towers.
Pilgrim paths, still visible and walked,
wind around and around the conical mount.
One day, the acoustics of
a battle-scream reverberated
around this three-sided bay,
the Irish Sea rolling red
the virgin sand,
- a new DNA to mix with the old.
The screams now belong to children,
cast away from appropriating hands.
Some, in a feat of engineering,
have dug culverts and dams to divert
the course of a stream,
flowing over granite onto
the expansive beach.
Who can count the grains of sand?
Or the dreams and neuroses of children?
©Andrew James Murray