I love being by the sea in a small cove in North Pembrokeshire where the water is clear and cold. But sometimes, in other places, I get:
Mal de Mer
It's calm tonight, like some old smelly dog
tongueing my ankles: rotten seaweed fronds
curl round my big toes; ice-cream papers clog
the space under my foot arches; beyond
float lumps of scum, dead ducks on a millpond.
And now a gale blows up: foul brown spume flies
into my ears; salt grit invades my eyes;
two rubber things, unspeakable, attack
my knees and bloodless, blue, goose-pimply thighs;
I'm felled by an oiled clump of bladderwrack.