Last night the sea dreamed it was Greta Scacchi.
It wakes unruffled, lustrous, feeling sweet –
Not one breath of scandal has ever touched it.
At a higher level, the rain has too much power.
Grim clouds conspire to bring about its downfall.
The squeeze is on, there is bound to be a shake-out.
The smug sea and the sky that will soon go bust
Look like antagonists, but don’t be fooled:
They understand each other very well.
We are caught between the hammer and the anvil.
Our bodies, being umpteen per cent water,
Are in this thing up to the neck at least.
If you want to feel detached from a panorama,
Try the Sahara. Forget about Ayers Rock –
The sea was once all over it like a rash.
The water in the opal makes it lovely,
Also unlucky. If not born in October
You might be wearing a cloudburst for a pendant.
The ban on flash photography is lifted.
The reception area expectantly lights up.
No contest. It’s just life. Don’t try to fight it –
You’ll only get wet through, and we are that
Already. Every dimple in the swell
Is a drop in the ocean, but then who isn’t?
No, nothing about women is more sensual
Than their sea smell. Look at her lying there,
Taking what comes and spreading it on her skin –
The cat, she’s using her cream as moisturiser.
Milt Jackson’s mallets bounce on silver leaves.
Strafed by cool riffs she melts in silent music:
Once we walked out on her, but we’ll be back.
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