A child and his mother sit on a cliff. The child is caught in a strange, bright awareness—the flower root tastes like quinine, the grasshopper works its sewing-machine. He asks her to listen to a distant sound, something that seems impossibly pure, like a bell rung beneath the sea or in heaven. His mother gently tells him it’s only the buoy bell in the bay. But for the child, the sweetness of that sound unlocks a deeper longing: he imagines lying dead under the foam, still able to hear the bell, and certain his mother would often come to rest beside him, listening happily. The mood is sunlit and tender, yet threaded with melancholy. Ordinary clifftop moments drift into a child’s quiet, startling wish for a peace so complete it blurs the line between life and death, all held within the safety of his mother’s presence.
The Child on the Cliffs — Summary
MOTHER, the root of this little yellow flower Among the stones has the taste of quinine. Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun shines so bright, And the grasshopper works at his sewing-machine So hard. Here's one on my hand, mother, look; I lie so still. There's one on your book.
But I have something to tell more strange. So leave Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear,-- Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place,-- And listen now. Can you hear what I hear Far out? Now and then the foam there curls And stretches a white arm out like a girl's.
Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be A chapel or church between here and Devon, With fishes or gulls ringing its bell,--hark.-- Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven. "It's the bell, my son, out in the bay On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day."
Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales. I should like to be lying under that foam, Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell, And certain that you would often come And rest, listening happily. I should be happy if that could be.