Under small sails from Itchenor she catches the tide,
in the middle the waves cut both ways. Holding course,

westerly away from the Steeple and the coastal path,
the beckoning Sea awaits.

On the headland a child sways quixotically
The Horizon turns and sinks beneath the day.

Speeding now, she feels the life-force pushing her out,
out and out and free from roots.

She lets it slip and skim until all is blue and sky,
Until no sound of home is heard.

Here the biting salt no longer stings the way it used to,
the way the cloudless tears still do,

Where home is anchored to a barren land,
adrift among these furrowed waves she stands

© Wolfgar 2020