John Blight Poems

I saw its periscope in the tide;
its torpedo-seed seeking the soft side
of the island, the grey mud-bank.
And, where it touched, it seemed the land sank
...

This toil-free moment moves me to dissent –
there are no hours of freedom, since the mind
is no more able, of its natural bent,
to speak with accents carefree, unconfined
...

Dinghies, those disreputable carts of the sea,
Driverless, and horseless, idle on the mud;
Out-of-date, yet still suffered; tied up
-As if they’d bolt-with chains to the jetty.
...