The Pull Of The Tide Poem by Anthony Dawson

My splendid cargo;
Tossed about on mountains of foam
But not to forever languish


The pull of the tide
Brings gulls to scour
And discoverers of another hour
A chest of promise brings the changing wind;
Of fear; of warmth to outstretched arms


Words cannot work without matching the face
A face has no state if words recede


Outwards, onwards to the sea
Into the ears, the suspicion of eyes,
The faintest cries of honesty