There are two paths. Three nuns in jackdaw greys

have chosen the right, up concrete steps

and through the gorse clumps, towards a cross
that’s clear-cut against the lowering sky.
I choose the gentler, muddier left, and meander

along the cliffs, unable to see the destination
of the railway below, but drawn on by spring's
indiscriminate strew – bluebells, stitchwort,
valerian and vetch, the treasury of pennywort
clinging to the stone, and always the promise

implicit in the next jut of rock. At the fork, signs
warned of weakening bridges: decades back,
this path was much more than a stroller’s trail,
but now there's only a hint of past importance –
an ivy’d ruin, with a clump of nettles discouraging

close inspection. Further on, I see the whitish
slabbiness of buildings – an amorphous huddle
where aeons ago slate and sandstone yielded
to the soothing caress of time. Without a map,
I can’t identify the town – maybe Greystones:

no matter, since I'll not get there and, anyway, rain
again is moving in. A brisk walk returns me
to the paths’ divide. The nuns too are back,

the cross above them now veiled by cloud.