The sea you said no one can
do anything
about that.
There it was lapping at staithes
and jetties
at iron stanchions
stacked lobster pots that offer a
mazed way in
but not out.
No one can do anything about
the rhythm of it
in our sleep
as if we’ll step ashore woken
from our
long landward
evolution the beat of it the
suck and swell
swell and silt
of it the grinding down of all
things to sand.
Strands of kelp
uprooted into clear pools
of saltwater
dimpled on the
beach beyond crusted breakwater
balks meant
to hold it back
the sea as if anything could
this side of
space/time.
It’s beyond us you said meaning
me to
understand
that much at least at last
your eyes
narrowed
your hair blazing with salt
or merely set
with stars.
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This article appears in the 04 Sep 2024 issue of the New Statesman, Starmer under fire