The Victorian Pier

Sauntering on the planks,
boats out at sea,
umbrella in my hand,
the grey hanging high.

An old pebble beach,
strolling along the esplanade,
admiring the Italian gardens,
Victorian splendour in autumn.

Holes in my shoes,
the smell of rust,
the smell of salt,
waves dance below us.

Fishermen in the drizzle,
the Pavilion’s history echoes,
empty benches seat ghosts,
the pier their host.

I Am Sea

I know I will one day dry out
but for now I need to be wet,
in the bathroom dunking myself
proving I’m not a witch.

A nautical sense is within me,
calmness found in sea breeze,
solace in gentle ripples,
a boat trip is Ritalin to me.

My enthusiasm is a tidal wave,
I drown people in rushing words,
towering waves of specific vagueness,
sweeping them out on my tide.

It’s a conflict within me,
I can be by it or on the cusp,
but being in water I can’t see
the bottom of terrifies me.

Underwater forests flourish
under old wooden platforms,
the sweet smell of saltwater,
comfort found in the sea.