He shows me a photograph of his father sat on a boat.
A mess of net piled on the bow, a morning sun spilled into sea.
“Each life carries the next, like an infinite lift of waves, generation
to generation,” he said. “Even if it means to carry a coffin of bricks.”
I saw his figure later in the day, stood at the highland edge,
his arms held out wide to the spread of blue expanse before him.
And that night, I woke to waves, their hush on shingle,
to winds running through alleys, homes, cathedrals.
A chorus of a thousand lives, sea shanties from children,
husbands, wives, forever carried on a gentle tide.
Photograph taken in Port Isaac, Cornwall, UK.