patience

Patience

Spindrift at sea I can understand, it blinds.
My ship ran aground on a strand of pebbles,
coarse grass inland and goats, the frictions
of sea surge had made every tiny shingle
round; soon here will be a beach of golden
sand, hotels, restaurant and pocket thieves.
Oh, yes I had great plans, but ashore I met
a peculiar type of spindrift, it’s called love,
and she didn’t want to wait. When I could
see again I lived in small flat with a woman
and her noisy children, whom, she says, are
mine and working in a factory. The pebbled
beach has soft, yellow sand now where old,
rich men play with their second wife; and it
ain’t fair ‘cause it should have been me.