Spring, and sand drifts to where the land
rises on its hilly backbone and the track
from Cow Strand begins or ends.
Stone walls still line the island. A hare
flicks up her ears above an ocean
of fiddle-headed fern. Everything
that grows here leans; thistle heads
and scutch bow over the hoof-ruts;
even the stone gable holds an unlikely
tilt. Swallows visit, re-build beside
the lintel, and woodlice work most nights,
shrinking bit by bit the rotten wall-plate.
The threshold sprouts spotted rockrose;
its yellow flowers colour every summer now.