It took fourteen hours to hitch from London to Portsmouth. I can picture you in your battered old coat. Blown by the trucks on the side of the road. Cursing the world just until one pulls over. The cab is warm the driver is talking. And oh if he had his time over again. And you laugh with the man but you think of another. Stealing away around each darkened corner. The ghost of your father always always watching. And he waits for you when the black tide comes. And you feel the ghost of your father waiting. An unbearable stillness hangs over these days. Humming with the promises broken. The bewildered watch from behind misted-up glass. As the ambitious and lucky get to feed on the carcass. When you feel so much in such a small space. Do you think you can keep on running. Like the papers that blow down your empty street. Outside in the dark when you cannot sleep. The ghost of your father always always watching. And he waits for you when the black tide comes.