Where cliffs lean close and waters churn, The harbour waits for tides to turn, A crooked path, a witch’s lore, The sea spells secrets on the shore. The valley breathes in moss and mist, Each stone by storm and story kissed, A raven arcs through salted air, Its cry a charm, both dark and rare. The flood once came with roaring might, Yet Boscastle held through fear and night, Now gardens bloom where torrents ran, A testament to heart and hand. So walk the edge where