The first and second tides bleat soft, like sheep;
So soft are they, their waters barely creep
Past infant castles patted in a heap.
The third grows breasts and bristles on the neap;
Upon the fourth our fortunes toss and leap;
The wicked fifth claims what we thought to reap.
The sixth arrives by stealth, while greybeards sleep;
The seventh comes: short terrors - and the deep.
from Island of Dreams (Noctua Press, 2007), copyright © Felix Dennis 2007, used by permission of the author and the publisher.