by Andrew J. Müller
The sea is the master of this place,
Lash the land,
With merciless spume,
Wearing the age old granite down,
With every tide,
In and Out.
With sunset hard upon your face,
To the ocean wide,
Past Longships standing bold alone,
On the edge of sight.
The land stops here - the land stops here,
The gulls declare,
As they wheel above,
But under the waves, empty now,
Run the galleries,
Of Geevor Mine.
Deep under the ocean men once mined,
The precious white,
In stormy weather they could hear,
On the seabed.
The pulley wheels have all now stopped,
No longer drain,
Quiet descends around Geevor Mine,
But for the constant,
Crash of the waves.
And every summer the emmetts come,
To stare and gawp,
At quaint illusion,
For this place was hard living once,
And is and always,
Will be ruled by the sea.
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© Photo - Andrew J. Müller, Roy Barton and Shaun Runham
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