Think of it this Way

by John Glenday

Late May.
Rapefields in open blossom.

You pull into a layby
to savour that heady fullness

of yellow, staining the air
an inspissate blue

far closer to ocean than sky.
And suddenly your way is clear:

no ship, no berth, no sail,
no family on the quayside

waving goodbye;
only a sea that will never

become a sea, and you
already stepping from the car.