HE CASTS his rod back into the sea
Yet there are no dead fish by his side
For when he catches one he throws it back into the iridescent Channel.
He admires the magnetic pull of the ocean
And on wild days when the waves crash
But now it is a gentle day in May
And all his problems seem far, far away
Feeling as free as the gliding seagulls
Over the pier, unaware of their majesty.
He comes here in all weathers
Not minding the grey rainy days
Making the Somerset hills invisible
For this is his sanctuary, his garden shed
But with a rather superior view
The silver sea under a sky of blue.
Guy Fletcher
Pantmawr
Cardiff
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