for the man in the sand
Long after you have gone, the seagulls
Are upwardly mobile in my mind’s eye,
Calling in the singular language of their trade.
Their shape eyes interrogate the home brew
And pewter of an English sea. Way below
The fretful summer traffic works itself up
Like a red-faced, angry baby on the pier front.
And the hole, from where you came,
Is now gone, washed out, you rest there
No more intricate and empty, rolling
Water jostles in the light as if it’s a dance.
Far off a trawler fathoms out fish, it’s nets
Work up a thirst for other seas beyond
But the sea is like; too big to take in,
And not quiet infinite enough.