Sun-Kissed Golden Sand



Wet were the ways twisting through to Looe

and to Tintangle then round those solid stone

phalanges fingering accusingly at heaven where

we wandered with hand-gloved hands

to love in hayfields and on golden sands.


Do you remember sitting on that lichen licked

church stone wall? Do you recall? Our drive

to that place, and the farmstead and Pablo’s dog?

Do you remember how your feet wept crimson

up to St. Michael’s Mount? Or how they’d press

the golden sand where there they would sunder

and we with the wash-waves rolled like thunder?


Those sunny days and rain-swept lanes are

like the frozen frames of our long lost cameras.

Now the freeboards and their fishermen’s bands

have, like you now, sailed from the golden sands.

Our bond was of Cornish metal and like that ore

we faded. Distance now holds our storm and strife

and we keep safe in tin cases memories of our life.


Wild claws slash the jagged rocks at our lands end.

The omnipotent ocean separates us from blows

we rained down upon our hearts and minds.

Mine now beats free from the stonewalls and

blood stained glass we constructed for ourselves.

Yet I’ll never forget those kisses on that heathen

damp golden sand, or the sweet sward of Eden.


Here my lonely weather-beaten heart is warmed,

by a Mexican tide reaching where I abide in solitude

standing guard on the sentinel slopes and cliff tops

watching the seething swell, or rain fall on rocks

and the fisher-folk and the sun-kissed golden sands

now I’m released from the cold stone of your hands.



Malek Montag,

Rochester, 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15


Picture Credit:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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