HIGH TIDE AT SANDYHILLS

That night, when everything was full,
The moon, the flaring bay & me,
Everything was possible, beautiful.
I could have swum to St. Bee’s
In minutes, made for Maryport,
Washed myself up in England
Casually before the pubs shut,
Tide-bright & thirsty on the strand.
As it was, I floated a mere hundred yards
On gentle waves to a stake-net pole,
Driftwood on a fluid mirror of stars,
Full as the universe, pin-pricked with holes.