Think of it this Way
by John Glenday
Late May.
Rapefields in open blossom.
You pull into a layby
to savour that heady fullness
of yellow, staining the air
an inspissate blue —
far closer to ocean than sky.
And suddenly your way is clear:
no ship, no berth, no sail,
no family on the quayside
waving goodbye;
only a sea that will never
become a sea, and you
already stepping from the car.