I was looking back on an exhibition some time ago about objects excavated from the Thames when I came across the picture below and this article, and somehow it reminded me of a poem by Kapka Kassabova. (Also, unrelated – far too many places are milking the “spring into action” pun this season…)
Sick of the Ocean
by Kapka Kassabova
In the winter of our youth
the ocean was cold
and in the summer of our later years too.
We are sick of seeing the ocean
of hearing the ocean
tasting its blood
metallic and cruel.
But here, there is no other season,
there is only the ocean
carrying unwanted Sundays
like seagulls travelling on slow waves
towards the cold beaches of our palms
where nothing grows
where we draw with sticks
our long names and small hearts
where everything including the future
is neatly washed out
on the next day.