If ever there was a place of magic lore,
Where white gulls soar at twilight,
Dancing seas woo the shore,
Huddled homes hint of firelight.
Then there I have stood and dreamed with you,
‘Neath neat pink cottages swallowed by dusk,
Timbered panes frame cliffside view,
Through thin curled woodsmoke, a wisp of musk.
Mellow the sorcerer's night,
A hint of holy half-light,
Guiding us in wonder,
Down winding cobblestones,
To the harbour,
Where the surge of the sea,
Vies with the revelry,
Whispering from the sad,
And come the morn, misty, murky,
The merest hint of mortar,
Hidden in hollows, all shades of pastel,
As liquid as the water.
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