The sea would throw him up again otherwise sure, why not? Drawn there though. Drawn, drowned, down to the sea in a sunlit ship. A Greyhound bus rather, his driving days over. Blindness. Retinas spontaneously detaching. The fates have spun an airy film over misshapen myopic eyeballs, the congenital curse of his lazy bloodline of hibernian helots.
Come this far. Fifty summers gone, corpse-thin and nearly blind, an intrinsically lighthearted cast to the jut of the skull beneath the skin though, the look of a cheerful William Burroughs.
All will be well, he used to chant along with her, before her journey ended and his own began. All will be well.
