The Manchester Review
Gerald Dawe
Two Poems
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On days like these I often think
of Patrick Smyth on his boat,
cuffing through the waves
between Rathlin and Portrush,
lord of all he surveys –
                            the coast of Ireland,
jagged and proud, shuns the North Sea,
the seals and porpoises follow him
as he veers west to Malin Head,
a luxury liner rolls on the distant tide
and Patrick Smyth, alone on his boat,
with tables and maps, adjusts the sail
like a paper boat, a solo man
in all the wide wide sea.