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Poetry & Verse

A selection of poems by C.J. Morris

Saundersfoot - Where Dreams Come True

Saundersfoot - Where Dreams Come TrueC.J. Morris
00:00 / 03:09

As a boy I dreamed of many things, of seals and shells and fish with wings

Of anything upon the tide that floated in from far and wide

And ended up upon my shore. Of things that floated on the sea

The ones that most excited me were ships and rafts and rowing boats.

A schooner sailing on the tide to moor along the harbourside

Loading anthracite for Queen Victoria’s fireside.


My boats were empty polish tins with sticks for masts

And cardboard wings made up from abandoned cigarette packs

Thrown out in smokers rubbish sacks.

I sailed them in the salty ponds drifting over seaweed fronds

From rocky cove to the other side and dreamed of being on the tide.


My books about the oceans wide filled with whales and secret fish,

Islands in the tropical seas growing breadfruit on amazing trees

Of treasure ships with holds of gold, emeralds green and strings of oyster pearls that menfolk brought back home to all the girls who longed them home and wept when they were lost at sea.

Yet it did never bother me, I knew because one day a lucky sailor I would be courtesy of her Majesty.


Eight bells one morning rang for me as I found myself in the Queen’s Navy.

With a telescope and a sword at my side and braid on my arm worn with pride

I sailed real oceans around the world and learned to fly just like a bird.

Then I returned from whence I came and wrote my stories not for fame,

But to tell you just like me and you, that all your dreams can come true.


Saundersfoot sunset, photo by R. Burrell


Some say that a quarryman is never lost

For his smile in that cold grey slate is embossed.

He's exalted above in some place in the sky,

Where the choirs and smiles of the quarrymen lie.

And the shingles lament for a tiler's fate

Hush - for an artisan has split his last slate.

There souls look down from that lofty peak

To the roofs and the gables which if they could speak

Would say, his life's work has not been in vain

For all manner of folk he has sheltered from rain.

And the shingles weep for a tiler's fate

Hush - for an artisan has split his last slate.

How still he lies there on the ground

Hammer on chisel rang his last sound'

Now the mountain rolls him a misty shroud, bears his soul aloft on a quarryman's cloud

And the shingles shiver for a tiler's fate

Hush - for an artisan has split his last slate.

Saundersfoot Beach

The Paddling Lady

A paddle is forever like a memory of a dream,

A window on a world that mostly goes unseen

Where shrimps scamper merrily to escape the tingling feet

And cockles clap their shells in a seabed where they meet

To join a roundelay and partner in a trance

With hermit crabs and molluscs joining in the dance

But the paddler unaware of the antics down below

Enjoys the coolness of the sea before she has to go

Coppet Hall Beach, photo by R. Burrell

Low Tide


Low tide on Saundersfoot Beach,
photo by R. Burrell

A trail that follows him that he can never shake.
No naked footprints on the beach for they have come and gone
Just like the toe-nails that grew long and that he used to reach
To snip and clip with consummate ease
Now nothing there below his knees no sand to squeeze
Between his toes.

A cobbler cobbled him a foot another one a leg
Not one but two identical not like Ahab’s ivory peg
That tapped the deck upon the quest he led
But two. What should he do?

Close to the lonely shore and ebbing tide he discards both. And more.
Forlorn and lost he lingered long and gazed
Abstracted as a wave that washed away his pride.
Then naked crawled into the briny sea
To let the surf wash over him or over what there still remains.
But can it ease the legless pains?

Is this to be his end or is there more to life than a salty grave?
What of his mates he could not save from death
Upon the bloody sands of Afghanistan?
Would they be proud of him right now?

It turns the tide. He can endure to start anew upon this shore?
A different courage he must surely find to tame the demons in his mind.
Both hands are strong and heart is sound
Time for a cobbler’s mark upon the ground.

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