There is thunder in your eyes, ground strokes and steppers
That eddy-up under boorish clouds in a regatta of sparks,

Torrents beneath thickened swells that strafe along walls
Of incontinent depths. But in the deader calm between

Parallels content on delivering salvation's edge, end of earth
To another . . . go no further, leave these souls that anchor

Their rituals to myth, raise their sails to a greater pilot and
Return us face down and silent to these waters made flesh.

Daily we drift nearer, wrung out of idle and dreaming
Under a sun whose miniature of life stirs in the calm float.

Our schedules and cares destined for a new world's promise now 
Forfeit to a sea's fin de siècle, hump oil and smug belongings

While the hoof of these latitudes bares down to remind us 
That we drag its oar with conviction.

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16 Renford Road (four)
Page 6