Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

We suppose, he left
Our cheerful fug
No worse for wear
Than often before
And under the lintel
And over the threshold
That afternoon
Knowing the tides
And the way to wade
Went into a mist
As thick as a bag.

These islands camp
Like wagons for the night
And all within
Shallows and landmarks
Home. He stepped
At one of the gaps
Into the river of sea
Where the banks are close
As often before
Warm in his aura
Of fags and beer
In fog as thick as a shroud.

The sea is everywhere
Under the window
Along the wall
It salts the gardens
It rides on the air
Especially at nights
We taste of it.
Foreign or local
Ignorant or sussed
Put a foot wrong
And out of our midst
The water takes you
As cold as Styx.

A long disappearance
Weeks, months
And no one likes
To chisel a stone.
The sea is shapeless
Or every shape.
Where is its mouth?
Where are its paws?
It moves you along
When you lodge it bides
Does something else
For a while, you are shelved
Then it fetches you
With a nudge and a shove
And on you go.

The land stacks up
On its contour lines
To nothing compared
With its going below
Big step by step
When you think how the heart
Of a swimming man
Stops at the hints
Of the deep that cruise
In here from beyond
That mouth of the river of sea
Where there’s always a swirl
Of noise and it’s never
One second still.
Gannets impact
Like arrowheads
But it’s nothing at all
Their height of fall
And penetration
Compared with below
Where the drinker drifts
Who is less and less
Himself and more
And more like a log
And all his mind
The rememberer
And stash of dreams
Gone in a run
Of bubbles into the fog.

And all’s the same
The sun and moon
Exchange their views
The wind, the light
Play on and on
And the clarities
Are vaporized
But come again
And would hurt the eyes
Of anyone waking out there.
And ‘Lost at Sea’
Is better than
‘At Peace’,‘At Rest’
‘Asleep’, the sea
Never sleeps
Is never at rest
Has no peace
Gives none, and he
Drifting alone
Is like a draught
Coming under the door
Through bar and snug
A cold whiff
Of the river running
A step away
The river of the sea
That hurries through
The crack in our camp
And carries off
All manner of stuff.