0107.

Sea fever. John Masefield. 1902.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Untitled.

Ivor Cutler. To Giorgio Morandi. 1973.

A chair,
And a table,
A man sits,
elbows on the table.
An eye in his head.
In the wall,
a window,
He sees
through the window.
His foot,
in a shoe,
rests on the floor.
A bird flits by.
The white wall
is matt.
Its texture
irritates the man
as he tries
in vain
to empty his head
to let a fresh thought
fill it.
As his teeth meet
they make a soft click,
like pebbles
in the water.

0214.

Costal Walk.

No bay this but a long narrow line of sand, the spiky dunes holding back the breeze,

To make the walk away from the crowd uncomfortably hot, below medusa sun.

Zig zag to find firm footing on unmapped sands, above the wash of the waves.

Pale sand with white shells, pearl sky and sea tone, parched seaweed.

Small heroic seabirds pit and run on ahead to lure the predator from the nest.

A creek cuts the beach and pours invisibly into the ocean, forcing up sand to form the waves,

Far on, in solitude, a calm stretch of sea tones to purple; strip off, run in and swim.

Salty fizz and cool bliss turns to low fear as the rip tide pulls away from home land.

A visitor in this now cold and fearful element, dumped cargo in the current,

Fear burns to fatigue, slow and steady, to find footing and foolishly naked, wade ashore.

And sit down and be slapped by the shore break and laugh repentantly

At the close call and briny baptism.

0115.