An ocean without a tide and big waves doesn’t seem like a real sea to me
Missing the tide
I was weaned on racing tides
and wild waves
whether England, Éire or Wales
my North Atlantic never failed
In comparison, the baltic sea
seems to me a poor thing
revolving in place; impotent, prissy
powerless to touch me, unless I allow it
like a cowed man in a matriarchy
waving from a distance, waiting for me to take the plunge.
I prefer to be pursued. My favourite game was always chicken
partnered by the ocean, who pretended to lie low,
then drenched me with a humdinger
seven times as big.
This suitor hesitates
as if there was a big weight holding him back
and though he’d like to rush forth
the baggage impedes
so instead he just struts loudly
and makes excuses.
15th July 2017, Graz