THE SEA
My mother’s favourite poem was Sea Fever by John Masefield. I had it read at her funeral.
‘I must go 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 go 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 go 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.’
It’s lonely, of course, that does it. There is something about the sea that speaks to us in the peculiar language of isolation. It is the sheer enormity, the vast expanse of indifference to humanity. When you stand on the shoreline you know that the sea exists independently of all human activity, that it existed long before we arrived on the scene and will do so long after we have all gone; it has no need of us.
‘I must go 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 go 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 go 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.’
It’s lonely, of course, that does it. There is something about the sea that speaks to us in the peculiar language of isolation. It is the sheer enormity, the vast expanse of indifference to humanity. When you stand on the shoreline you know that the sea exists independently of all human activity, that it existed long before we arrived on the scene and will do so long after we have all gone; it has no need of us.
