Three hundred steps to the end of a pier,
sixty five days until the breach of this year,
shadows fall reluctant to freshwater;
somehow they are what lay far beneath
and won’t be easily dislodged.
Below the surface of a tide’s roll,
365 leagues to go, or perhaps I can’t tell
exactly how deep it drags me down;
a lifetime, left upshore harboured by day,
dived by the twists of an uncertain night.
Hours eclipse weeks, months and years,
but I don’t wonder where they flow,
for the rain belongs to the opening sea
and the sea is where I swim to shore.
I don’t wish to dream like this anymore,
yet sail on uneasy recollections
let me charter you, turn canvas to the wind,
sift fear’s quicksand to wide, solvent ocean;
let me pass, so I can walk on home.
