I see him, a walking man,

I see him, a walking man,

Brown skin burned

By salty sun

Leaning into the morning

Whitebeard flowing

Into his matted thatch

Silvery threads

Beading in sunlight

As dappled as the tips of waves

The sea crowding in behind

As he trudges,

Smiling benignly at the children

Of privilege.

Railing against tradition

Refusing to age gracefully

Wending a raggedy way

Into the middle distance

The smell of the past

The pall of distant memories

The last of the sea gods

Walking among us.

Dragging the weight of the world

Behind him

In a shopping trolley

With a wobbly wheel

Beating the crows

To a handy meal

From out of a bin.

As free as any bird on the wing

Slipping away

From the edge

As ghostly as a whisper of sea fret

Drifting on the wind

In lieu of misdirection.

Melting into the air,

As grand a gesture of defiance

As any other

Ragged trousered Neptune

Thrown up by the sea.