I took my problems to my old friend, the sea.
He watched me with his flashing eyes
And spoke to me with seven foaming lips.
I poured out my problems
And he poured them right back again.
Now that I’m sitting, like a stone on a rock,
Now the beach-huts are deserted,
And all the lovers have gone home,
He’s still there;
He’s still there;
The still small voice
Of endless noise,
Wearing at my loneliness.
Edward Alport is a proud Essex Boy and occupies his time as a teacher, gardener and writer for children. He has had poetry published in a variety of webzines and magazines. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.
Foxglove Journal 