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