I hear the ocean more and more and yet can’t hear what you say,
the shingle song carries me on and the tide takes me away.
I expect it is age related
ebbing as I am
or it could be that I’m saturated
with the stress of being a man.
I see equations in the atmosphere
where clouds appear as numbers,
it’s like a bingo game
that I won’t win
until they call my name.
I can’t ignore the sea
the shore is calling me
and I must go.
© 2018, John Smallshaw.