We used to picnic where the thrift <br />Grew deep and tufted to the edge; <br />We saw the yellow foam flakes drift <br />In trembling sponges on the ledge <br />Below us, till the wind would lift <br />Them up the cliff and o’er the hedge. <br />Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea, <br />Sun on our bathing dresses heavy with the wet, <br />Squelch of the bladder-wrack waiting for the sea, <br />Fleas around the tamarisk, an early cigarette. <br /> <br />From where the coastguard houses stood <br />One used to see below the hill, <br />The lichened branches of a wood <br />In summer silver cool and still; <br />And there the Shade of Evil could <br />Stretch out at us from Shilla Mill. <br />Thick with sloe and blackberry, uneven in the light, <br />Lonely round the hedge, the heavy meadow was remote, <br />The oldest part of Cornwall was the wood as black as night, <br />And the pheasant and the rabbit lay torn open at the throat. <br /> <br />But when a storm was at its height, <br />And feathery slate was black in rain, <br />And tamarisks were hung with light <br />And golden sand was brown again, <br />Spring tide and blizzard would unite <br />And sea come flooding up the lane. <br />Waves full of treasure then were roaring up the beach, <br />Ropes round our mackintoshes, waders warm and dry, <br />We waited for the wreckage to come swirling into reach, <br />Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and I. <br /> <br />Then roller into roller curled <br />And thundered down the rocky bay, <br />And we were in a water world <br />Of rain and blizzard, sea and spray, <br />And one against the other hurled <br />We struggled round to Greenaway. <br />Blesséd be St Enodoc, blesséd be the wave, <br />Blesséd be the springy turf, we pray, pray to thee, <br />Ask for our children all happy days you gave <br />To Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and me.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trebetherick/
