And some time take a chance on riding east
to Whitby, where Atlantic waves hit shore
on a wintry day - when real wind
catches blue light and, together, harass
the land. That ocean’s wilder than a horse;
and, when you look, the moors, slate and snow
have their edges smashed by wave on waves,
churning shingle, rasping white and white,
when relentless, curling grasping petals
turn and grab, release.
Unless you’re God, and know what’s going on,
you’re ungrounded here:
so quickly hurry onto pavements
before the next refreshing wave hits sideways,
catches your awaiting heart and cracks it open.