Beyond your knees at Sailor’s Glass
Boiled the kelp-smelling sea,
There the wind galloped in the tough grass
At the edge of the world, and our Sunday wish
At the edge of the world and free,
Was to bottle a dredged up jelly-fish.
Seaweed and dead fish and shells were lure
In the grave of the sandy bowl,
The glistening arms of swimmers struck
Sparks from the suncharged air, and a whole
Orphanage came down on the sand in a truck,
And old ladies were there for the cure.
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