The Channel calls and clashes at the shore,

The slippery sea wall yields no reply,

Looking down from the pier above,

The olive green waters fiercely enthrall,

Clasping the horizon at its edge,

Hushing a whisper, still an enigma to us all

 

Sinking lights fall with the sea into itself,

And then creep up through the froth,

Still shedding little light where any seldom dare to delve,

As across the day, the tide goes to and fro,

And the contrasts are so great,

Between the majestic depths and the obnoxious undertow.

 

And the life that it does harbour

So ethereal, few can be believed at all,

All so graceful within their domain,

But many still feel the need to hide,

And none rightly blame them,

As our arrival is, perhaps, their high tide

 

The salts and brines weigh upon the air,

The sands are all covered up,

When revealed again, they'll be malleable,

Water, water everywhere, the paradox is perfect,

And while giving us the means to shape,

The tide itself, we can't hope to affect.