Rocky

Rocky

On the mist‑hung rocks of the North coast,
a lone figure sweeps the shore—
Rocky, a lad of pin‑point grit,
his boots sunk deep in the bleached stone.

He watches the gulls race the wind,
their cries a battered hymn to the sea,
and in his mind he hears the knock‑knock of the gym.
The pavement beside the pier turns from gravel to packed chalk, the dull‑white ache of training laid in the same yellow titres.

“Fighting is the same regardless of the country,”
he thinks, hefting his fists with the buzz of a Manchester‑wide drum.
His gloves shine like the brass of an old ship’s mast,
and the old lighthouse on the horizon looks on, a silent council.

The sea, thick and cold, receives his sweat like amber.
Its waves rip the old stones prudently, and in each splash
he finds the echo of a lesson: every kick rebounces
like a spare of tea, a turn of the semaphore on the quay.

Through the years, his right hand scratched the black‑spotted boar‑fur of his coat –
courage inked like the sea‑foam stains on the railings.
Bristol’s last pub open all night still grants a free glass of “some” –
he swears it’s more liquid courage than any glomp of whisky.

Streaks of colour appear on his lips from the pints of St Brew’s.
He looks, worn but proud, amid the endless climb of the coastline,
knowing each slam, each splash, each dreadfully smooth lay,
is a page in the same story his granddad told in the drone of a Welsh down‑town.

The sea, at times thin as a lunatic’s sigh,
broadens to azure brightness when the sun climbs over the kelp.
Rocky lifts his arms, takes a sharp breath, and smiles at the world –
for he is that one sturdy fighter, that island of resilience that lives
in every crest of a rock, every crack of a lashing wind, each waver on the quay.

A genteel warrior of the weather and the board –
his journey goes beyond the ring, beyond the final kick.
It’s a coast meet, a rhythm in the tide, a name that rests in the breath
of the North, the ballast of hope.

So watch the rocks clatter past,
light rhythm in a city that’s loud with traffic,
and every time you hear the sea’s applause,
know that Rocky’s inside, ready to climb once more.