From Staithes, in Yorkshire

so we have found a substitute, not quite
perfection, just serene approximate
not quite an island—not an isle at all
unless one thinks of isolation as
the definition. Hard to get there—isn’t
that enough?—dense with evacuees

from cities. Cliffs, and rock-pools, August light
relentless, probing, honest, intimate
the gulls scream day and night, and twilight falls
like blessing,  lingers late. The village has
a reputation for its art, and doesn’t
turn away those hungry for the sea

three thousand miles away to east, and more
faint greeting echoed from a distant shore

Larry Wilson