Walk Into the Sea

Working on the theory

that everything is a metaphor for something,

I decide to write a poem about the sea.

I can hear it now, behind me,

the idle rise and fall of the Mediterranean waves;

waves, which, it seems to me,

aren’t really trying hard enough;

waves which can’t be bothered.

The sea. I feel it ought only to get a passing mention

in the somewhere else of a different poem,

rather than a whole poem to itself.

After all, what does it care?

Oblivious to its salt, its water,

the fish, the sand, the boats, the plastic,

even the sky which reflects off its unstill surface.

‘Another poem about me?’ it will not say.

‘Oh, how terrifically original.’

Maybe the sea is better used as a question mark,

or a little splash of colour;

maybe a blink and you miss it hint of menace,

or perhaps the suggestion of summer –

depending on the poem it crops up in.

But an entire poem?

While you were reading this, I’ve been thinking:

what exactly is the sea a metaphor for here,

in this particular poem?

Answer me that?

While you formulate your answer,

I shall turn to face the sea and walk towards it,

anticipating the enjoyment of the water

washing the sun off my skin,

before I return, cooled enough to finish this poem.

And as I walk into the sea,

I will think about the story of my father,

into a second bottle of whisky,

staggering into Dublin’s bay at some ungodly hour,

willing the waves to take him,

not quite yet fully resolved

to end it all.