Each night the sea
tires of its slopping and slapping
and ascends the limestone staircase
of cactus-sharp stone.
It lies down
where sky has been,
waving away the blue
and only hooded clouds
show its occasional restlessness.
Bright fish with mouths
that globe, look down on me
and the breezy whish-whish
of sea-weed is the needled
branches of every pine.
I see the lights
of planes as they are out
trawling for dreams.
The moon spills milk
which I drink in,
before I too lie down
to sleep among shoals of stars.
by Mike Jenkins
from Invisible Times
Rambling At The Bridge Head 