Sea Fever by John Masefield
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.
As the end of February nudges the wind chimes and days creep towards Spring, when you begin to feel March breathe on the nape of your neck and daylight pauses a little longer...My head turns West, I feel the magnetic pull of Atlantic tides, waves edging up Cornish beaches and I long for Kernow. Boodle feels my restless energy. We went to the coast this week, here in Sussex, the yen was too strong. He smelt it four miles away and his hears pricked and he sang his beach song from the boot. I smiled, I know.
I have no need of sunshine, just the sea. Yes I am Piscean.
To fellow fish...Happy Birthday...here's to merry yarns and flung spray...