by John Betjeman (1906-1984)
The sleepy sound of a tea-time tide Slaps at the rocks that the sun has dried, Too lazy, almost, to sink and lift Round low peninsulas pink with thrift. The water, enlarging shells and sands, Glows 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, and 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 sussuration of incoming sea.