Griffiths and his cameraman were sent
to the home of the fallen rock star,
slung out of the band, her hermitage now
a small house by the Haven beach.
It wasn’t even a romantic cottage,
just a tidy bungalow, left her by her parents,
and wherein now, in mid-May sun,
she served them coffee in the garden.
All three then walked out on the beach,
to see the light on legendary cliffs,
the swathes of moss and tiny crabs
and seaweed spread in rock pools,
and watch the dogs, in freedom’s transports,
race on the morning beach. The sand itself,
pink, grained and bright in the sun,
was warm to their now bare feet.
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet whose work appears regularly both in in Britain and the USA, where he is a four-time Pushcart nominee.
