The Wall

Here at the seaside
stands a great protecting wall,
a pen for the old, playful sea.
Now chastised,
he mopes about his shore,
slumping down fat waves,
like sullen paws.
And along the wall
trees grow, evenly spaced,
never allowed to touch.
Made stiff and straight
like model trees,
their spines are broken.
Men with chainsaws
routinely come, to lop away
their wayward arms.
And a hawk passes
over the wall,
a last sentinel of the inaccessible.
Pursued by steel canyons,
he seeks out
dwindling green puddles
for huddled prey.
Somewhere, his house
is a dark, unreachable place,
a cave, a useless rock,
a citadel of that bedraggled spirit
beyond the wall.
And this great wall has no end.
It rings the entire coast,
an iron lip, to keep
man and sea at bay.
Here at its edge
the old wild sea
and restless man meet,
and white sails feel the playful wind,
and seem about to stir.

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2013

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