The Poetry Society

You're nearly there at last. The ocean is in the air,

although you can't see it yet. The sheep-grazed contours

now have an edge to them, as if the next field

might drop away into nothing. You've stared

 

at the distance so long it dissolves

into the swimming of your eyes,

a blue tremble. Is it you

 

or is that a fault-line

on the horizon,

 

a second sky?

 

*

 

People who live close to the sea get shrivelled by it.

They cultivate nets, parched ropes and grey splintered wood,

essences of tar, seaweed and bird-droppings,

orange plastic and blistering front doors.

 

This is the dry land the tide guzzles

that even the shivery rain

can never reconstitute.

 

Gulls like detached waves are

its emblem, doodled

 

in the margin.

 

*

 

They woke you this morning regurgitating their cries

and you went for a walk unravelling yourself

till you finally arrived at a loose end.

Only the sea knew where it was going.

 

This evening the girls are all dressed up,

glitter on the cobbles, the dark

slipping from their bare shoulders.

 

Prom night. They huddle near

its unseen body

 

breathing away.

 

*

 

So you got here, then. You're staying in a B and B

with sea view. You've eaten fish and chips on the beach

and had your fortune told: she saw a journey -

and you'd thought this was the end of the road.

 

A long way. Not in a boat. Not France,

much deeper. Are you getting warm?

You'll be colder soon. And dark.

 

Not death. More like going

back where you came from

 

and don't belong.