The Absentee

The Absentee
Oh the devil’s making mischief
Dirty rags that hang
From black lines to the south west

A fog upon the sea
No sailor among them

Washed up on the shore
A pocketful of Keats
Build a pyre on the beach

She’s kneeling on the dark sand
Sad grey eyes
The smoke begins to rise

With the absentee
The wild scenery
Appears to harmonise

Well-kindled flames of yellow
Glisten and quiver
Yet the heart remains entire
A spirit soars
Over old watchtowers

Nothing fades
Just a sea change