“Out of a misty dream,“ recited Lee Remick Dowson’s poem, “our path emerges for a while …“ but that was no dream: a nightmare it was and the ocean knows no time.
Ebbing and flooding and ebbing and flooding again
erasing the traces of sorrow by washing away all castles built on sand.
And the ocean is life in which all spit-out Jonahs are to drown.
Sooner, later, but finally always.
I have not made my mind up
who to trust
a lover liquid or one of flesh.
Either way I ‘ll be and remain a slave.