when once you have in your mind
the sound of the sea
you can be again back in the body
of the paddling boy
watching his father swimming
out towards the horizon

land-locked in towns
with flashing lights all night long
through the crack in the curtains
suddenly comes the swash of the sea
against all the breakwaters
of your life; whenever things go off track
you can stand on the top
of a high dreamy cliff
and take the placidity of the moving sea
right down deep inside yourself
even unto the horizon’s brief pause

the grey gale
and the boiling of the sea
I knew one afternoon a seventh
of my life away   standing at the end
of Brighton Pier—
that for a metaphor of the turmoil times