Above the shaggy ѕеа the day is gloomy.
Let’s rest here awhile, renouncing all endeavour.
And, like the Procurator of Judaea,
have а care to wash our hands before dinner.
1 realise, of course, that this is а cheap joke,
but there’s truth in cheap jokes, cheap truth, it’s true,
but somewhat fresher than the late lamented duck
which haplessly stinketh in it.s winding sheet of newspaper.
Looking at the tide, аѕ grey аѕ lambswool,
it’s difficult to imagine Poseidon in his glory;
an average washing day’s an apter comparison –
the shirt.s hung above the sink; the droplet.s off them pouring.
And this concoction of tears and gentle wind
inevitably calls to mind the nice idealist
who account.s for а quarter of man -at best а third.
On this day, indeed, fratricide has his f east,
sharing the celebration with suicide,
assisted by the Father and the Holy Ghost,
and wouldn’t а serpentine slither on the scree
be more appropriate than lounging under а parasol?
For Не too walked along the ѕеа’ѕ edge, knew safe sand from quick; in а grey boat
watched the sails fill above.
This was по disinterested spectator
at the eternal agon which is our too brief life.
Foreknown to Нim were all the future’s treasures.
Не knew the light and that which would occlude it,
that all water henceforth would be dull, measured
against the brilliance which was Genesareth.