A BAY IN ANGLESEY

John Betjeman 1906-84

The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide

Slaps at the rocks the sun has dried,

Too lazy, almost, to sink and lift

Round low peninsulas pink with thrift.

The water, enlarging shells and sand,

Grows greener emerald out from land

And brown over shadowy shelves below

The waving forests of seaweed show.

Here at my feet in the short cliff grass

Are shells, dried bladderwrack, broken glass,

Pale blue squills and yellow rock roses.

The next low ridge that we climb discloses

One more field for the sheep to graze

While, scarcely seen on this hottest of days,

Far to the eastward, over there,

Snowdon rises in pearl-grey air.

Multiple lark-song, whispering bents,

The thymy, turfy and salty scents

And filling in, brimming in, sparkling and free

The sweet susurration of incoming sea. 

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