It’s another beautiful day out there. It was 25 degrees Celsius at 8.30 this morning! If the clouds burn off it will be a scorcher.

It reminds me of a poem I wrote last year when we were on holidays in Cornwall.

The Perfect Day 

Sitting on a cliff in Cornwall,
the suns searing heat
is tamed by the kiss
of a gentle breeze
and the sea’s hypnotic shushing,
“it’s okay, you’re okay,
everything is okay
in the world,
today.”

The grasshoppers are not busy,
they rattle an occasional ‘cha-cha’
just to let me know they are there.
Effervescent butterflies,
white, pale blue, red admirals
alight gently on wild flowers
and dance and chase each other.

There are few seagulls here,
I miss their exuberant cry,
head back, gullet vibrating,
they release their Tarzan’s explosion,
joyously declaring their passion for life.
Nature’s town criers
shattering the peace
announcing
“All is quiet! All is quiet!”

A bird of prey hangs impossibly suspended,
in the blue sky.
She beats not a wing,
trusting the wind to hold her,
as she focuses all of her concentration,
on a potential meal.
Let me never come back as something small and furry
that I might have to fear her gaze.

She swoops and plummets to a sudden stop,
I quell the urge to cry out.
Again she hangs suspended,
in the air,
the wind occasionally ruffling her feathers.
Closer to dinner now,
her attention is on one single spot, unwavering.
Then again she swoops and drops out of view,
to reemerge on the other side of the cliff,
claws empty.
Dinner escaped or was rejected as too scanty
and my falcon has flown away.
She leaves me, awaiting her return.

The white waves break and roll to shore.
50 surfers try to tame them,
the bravest swimming farther and farther out,
to catch the longest, sweetest ride.
But it’s not Australia.
Wetsuit clad and buoyant surf withstanding,
I still fret for their safety,
though there is a lifeguard.

A gay painter has swept his brush
artistically here and there
to give character
to a clear sky.
And over there, three headlands away,
a cotton wool fluff.
A generous sprinkle of diamonds
adorn the waves
before they break to white foam.

The squeals of delight or shock
from the young surfers
are sufficiently far away from me
on this perfect day
on my bench
erected here on this beautiful cliff
to the memory of Rita and George Wright.

Copyright Nóra Skehan 2014