To The Sea
Walking down the bumpy road
Past the parked cars, the houses, mock Tudor,
Down to the sea.
Where the fast man walking is unlikely to see the sea or anyone.
It doesn't look like the sea today,
It looks like a grey painted wall.
No crashing waves, no sound,
No sea sirens waiting on sailors . . .
The last of the large summer flies,
Flying into your face, desperate,
They know summer is really over.
Walking back past the woman who walks leaning on one hip more than the other,
As women often do,
A weak smile,
Maybe it's the dampness, the mist
Coming from the sea.
Many who live near the sea rarely visit,
Like living near the Tate in London
And never getting curious about a Dali.
No seagulls today but a circle of startled looking sparrows,
Digging in a ditch for worms,
Born into such an environment,
Strange, harsh, diluted.
There stands the house on the corner,
The one that is said to be haunted,
Even the toys in there look afraid . . .
Looks like it's up for sale again . . .
That was my dream to live near the sea
But dreams must end before they begin.
The grey sky knows all the secrets,
All the shattered dreams,
Where the sky meets the sea.