Muddled

Nope. Again I’m too tired to make much sense.

But I read a book. I’m hoping one of these days I’ll write another chapter of A Star to Steer By.

‘Kay, I’m going to bed. But here’s the poem I took the title from. That title used to grace Eve’s book, by the way. But it didn’t work. (neither has anything else I’ve come up with.)

Bah. Bed.

Poem.

“Sea-Fever”

I must 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 grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must 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 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.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)