Sea poems

Tall ship on the Solent.          Red Funnel Ferry to Isle of Wight.

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The call of the sea

is a call that is wild

and free;

Where tall ships

dipping flanks cut

a wide furrow,

Steered by men with

a destiny and a star

to follow.


Peter Morriss





From out of the dark depths of

a coal black night,

An unfettered wind unleashed

its fury, whipping the waves

into a frenzy;

Storm driven rain stung like

angry wasps.


Against a ravenous sea

harbour defences trembled,

Heaving mountains of green

water surged;

Foam crested billows roller


Along curved man made concrete


Monolithic water spouts of foam

laden fury erupted high into the

night borne air.


At the height of the storm

heavy seas pounded their might,

Battering a long line of coastal



Peter Morriss






The gulls cry like the blowing

wind calls free,

Red Falcon, wetting her flanks,

heads out to sea;

This ship of the Red Funnel ploughs

a straight furrow to the deeps,

For ‘tis a destiny with the Isle Of Whight

and Cowes she must keep.


To port striding the Solent, a three

masted queen of the sea under a Belgian

flag, Red Falcon passes,

The Belgian’s sails furled as her smoke

stack to her wake chatters;

Out on the Solent,Masefield and his

call to the sea is here,

For a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

is a call that is clear.


Peter Morriss




(Felixstowe Harbour)




The waves tell me a story of far

away places as I repose on a

pebble strewn beach,

And the spirits of the wind tell

of their wandering ways that is

theirs to preach.



Pied Pipers of the channel guide

big ships a safe course to keep,

Leaving the harbour merchantmen

dream of wide open spaces as their

prows plough the crests to the deeps.



Peter Morriss  06.06.2000


SEA WIND  (Wells-Next-The Sea)




An angry sea breaks through

a blanket of mist,

The wind, a whetted knife cuts

with cold persist;

In the channel boats strain at

their anchor against the run

of the sea,

Sheltering from the storm boats

lay huddled against the quay.

Seabird flocks rest on the

marshes sparse cover,

Riding it out till the

long blow is over.


Peter Morriss   14.09.94