I can’t enjoy sea in the frosted window.
I am a three- B.H.K person who cannot
Play with the most expensive port sea.
The sea is beyond old man’s November
When he shall prove he still lives here
Among dying rocks slowly murdered.
I cannot hear sea moaning mid nights
But I can still hear a murder of rocks
And man holes dug for fresh deaths.
I can hear midnight stick tap passing.
My sea will be accomplished by leaps
And no bounds, a poet’s imagination.