The Buoy

Three miles from the shuddering cliff,

he dunks his old head under the bay,

    barnacled, bald – apart from a beard of kelp.

Nodding, he knows there's no other way

    to be, under a quilt of stars he'll nap,

allies with no-one but terns and sprats.

You ask him if it ever gets lonesome,

when the only music's the wild riff

   of plunging gannets and spume.

His answer's the same every sundown.

He can reflect out here, great shoals

    of thought that don't deplete or scatter,

and as the world eventually dulls

    he can watch our nightly endeavour

of drunken lights, open-top cruisers,

a fumble for something good in the grey.

Three miles from the shuddering cliff,

    he dunks his old head under the bay.

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