|POET-IN-RESIDENCE AT THE MUSEUM OF ROYAL WORCESTER|
Church Flatts Farm
All night the waves are in his room
lifting him from half-dreams
of bladder-wrack and drift-wood.
The walls breathe like filling sails,
the blood-tide beats in his ears,
he is feverish and sleepless, far
from instruments, with no navigator
and the Pole Star lost behind plaster.
When arthritis closed around his hands
he left the sea and made his way here,
the furthest he could move inland,
and stripped his boat to make a bed.
Mornings now he wakes with dry lips,
salt-blur glazing the window.
poem copyright the author 2015