I used to scan the undulating waves for whales;
imagined tails and dorsal fins
just missed in swirls of sudden foam
that spoke of some creative force –
willing, but uncome.
But now I know the whales are gone;
eddies of another age
and chances missed.
The surface of the sea is wracked by sobs,
and the deep, slow, swell
On the Caen-Portsmouth ferry, Sunday afternoon. Possibly not in my normal optimistic mood.