Poem to Remember in a Hard Time
Lyme Regis. Low tide. Small boats, masts hugger-mugger,
slump in the mud flats. Gray sky, gray water slopping
against the jetty – maybe rain to come.
The formal houses of the town beyond the promenade
lie jumbled against the hill. On the far breakwater,
black canon still waits for the French.
Here, if I waited stern against the morning chill,
the tide would come back from wherever it goes
and the boats would right themselves,
masts once again pointing to heaven –
something to hang a sail to.
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