No matter how far I go, from shoreline to shoreline, begging refuge from coastguards and strange light towers, I never drift far enough to find an Ocean without at least an ounce of you.

You’ll find me in Belgium, 

On the coast of the North Sea. 

I’ll be swaying on the current, 

The salty spray of the tide 

Running me towards the Strait of Dover. 

It bears my essence as it crashes, 

A crushing cerulean weight

To turn rock into sand, 

And sailors dreams into restless sleep.

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