The sea is, underneath the waves,
so deep, so calm.
On the surface constant motion
confuses and distracts.
Take today; the froth of waves
scurrying up the sloping beach
rushing to meet the dead-line
laid down in the tide-tables.
Yesterday, in the grey filtered
morning the heavy swell rocked
the boats in their moorings, waves
slapped hard on the angry shore-line,
punishing and bruising.
Beneath the advancing waves
the persistent under-tow
exercises its counter-force.
And far, far below fish lie
lazy In the still waters
On fine days the sea benignly
mirrors the sun, flashing silver
on its diamond-cut surface.
Bobbing boats dance and
all is picture-postcard fresh.
On grey days it’s good to remember
that it was often like this.
In the small cove the sea churns pebbles,
suck, crunch and toss against the jagged
rocks, turning all, at last, to sand;
slow weathering unnoticed by those
who have embraced for a hundred years.
Storm-tossed or moonlit swirling,
waves on the turn running out
of froth and spume or battering
against the chalky headland. It is all
constant change and motion.
But the sea is, underneath its tides
and times, so deep and calm.