Marine inspired poems by Gordon Meade


Prawns in a rockpool

Prawns in a rockpool are like our first attempts at flight, captured on film, and then played back, very slowly, in black and white.

Or, like some prehistori­c insects, caught for an instant that has somehow lasted forever, held in suspension, preserved in amber.


I am not so sure as to what it is I miss the most no longer living on the coast. It would be easy to say it is the sound of the sea.

And, yes, on certain days that would, indeed, be true. But, at other times, the occasional blast of a foghorn has its own very different appeal.

Silence may well be golden but, for myself, you just can’t beat the sound of a breaking wave, nor the moaning of some invisible animal

coming at you through a veil of fog.

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