England lies as a smudged
line
Squashed between sea and
sky,
A thin graphite divide,
parting
The mirroring grey of
water and cloud.
Heritage, pomposity,
human angst
Are temporarily erased,
Its 'might' reduced to
being
a mean filling in a
chunky sandwich.
Trees stud the hills
opposite,
The Isle of Wight is
defined,
Significant by its
proximity
To our bobbing, windless,
craft.
The tide drives us
forward,
Decisions are held in
balance,
Waiting and time
suspended,
For the act of
commitment,
