Rocklets patter down the crumbling cliff-face;
at its foot a platform;
a grey floor with curves
that might be fossils.

They probably are, these phosphatic fragments
of emptied bone, pale edges
shadows where ball once met socket
in a reptilian joint.

Cliffs are mirrored by the sea.
Across the watered distance from Dorset to France,
between Arromanches and Lyme Regis,
across the languages, cultures,
these shores are joined by Jurassic time

Rift

We stood, on the true edge of America,
looked across the sundered ground
at Europeís distant scarp.

In between, light snow flurries
came and went, hazing the short walk
between the continents.