Canute could not.
The weakest soul in the world
Sat crowned with a scented diadem,
Leaves slipping down his wrinkled head
To chuckle at him next to his ears.

The spin of wind out over the gulls,
The old gulls that wheel over flat sand
And the grey straights...
This wind has no skill.

And Neptune, crookéd, leaning on a staff
(For where is his trident now?)
Coughed,
Sniffed and turned away.

The King with wet ankles in the bay.