Still Sand In My Pockets

Sea Fever

I MUST go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. 


John Masefield 

I am home, but there is still sand in my pockets.

Crystal clear sparkling rockpools, bone white shells, sea glass, seaweed tresses of mermaid hair, tiny fairy fishes, selkies, seals, castles Kings,wizards, turquoise and Tintagel have been let into my wooden house of dreams. They have joined the dance inside of moonstone, hares, velvet winter coats, hearts,words,spirals and midnight cats. Seashells decorate the houses garden now and salty waves lap gently into the mossy moat. The little passages of my minds house are never ending with wonderings and wanderings.  Right now I can see a small window and moonlight shines through its leaded diamond panes. A door is ajar and whispers of words are escaping and creeping into the smallest places. They hide in matchboxes, jam jars, teacups, mirrors and the shadows and sparkles behind a curtain.

A door has opened and words have returned.

 

                                 

Happy September everyone!