by R L Tilley
Benllech on Anglesea where we stand on the sand
as a wild wind blows from the Irish Sea and watch
a tanker, far out, plying for Liverpool. We walk
the dogs there, upon the firm, wet sands and on
what there is of a promenade. The sea, grey and
mad, tumbles up against the sea wall and leaps in
columns of salt and spray onto the footpath and
A holiday girl
in a raincoat , yet hatless, walks back and forth
getting drenched and glumly delighting in it. You
see, she is unsmiling.
It is the kind
of sea, wild, powerful, treacherous, which will
pull you over the wall and out into the undertow.
A blissful sea, I say, which informs us of our
pitiful tiny fragility in the world we never
truly know. I am in awe of such seas and perceive
in them a terrible beauty.