Staring at Waves

by Bill Yarrow

“In sequent toil,” my father was quoting
     Shakespeare, “all forwards do contend,”
but I wasn't listening;
I was staring
     at the waves,
all green and gooey, all
pommes frites, ruinous, insolent, half
     fractal, sawing like insolvency, Swedishly
benevolent and Irishly violent, in whose
     reflection I saw deciduous shellfish
nibbling a fragrant net; fit minnows
     winnowing a wave; sunfish at worship,
contiguously religious. “I'm talking to
     about your future!” he was saying.
Me? I was wondering about the smug land,
      the politics of weather, the insurgent sea.