No More The Sea

No more the sea,

With its treacherous talk

Of adventure,

Of poetry.


No more will my soul

Yearn for the unsolicitous cliffs

Where the heart of cars

Departed once precipitously,


Left a plume of matted flowers

And an exhaustion of maternity.

No more the tortuous sea,

Its intoxicating sea-salt mist


And all the grey variants

Which number in their hundreds;

A fleet of adjectives:

The fret, the mizlin, haar


And ollund-blue boar drizzle.

The dormant sea, then,

The plastic sea, soulless,

Unfathomable, unloved,


And uncontested by molluscs.

No more the sheer sea, and its seasons

Of sudden shifting patterns,

The pale green glass


By a beach of burn-brown burrows.

No more love, no poetry,

No sea roses, no infidelities

Of language; but instead,


A constant mourning,

A dropping down of flags,

A pinching out of lanterns.

A silence. A warning.