Their long, uneven sound.
The thin tide pleated at my heels
My hair blew in the spray--
When driftwood bumped my legs, I turned.
My eyes were cold and grey.
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Like seaglass as they say, that shows
No light or time of day,
Night's weather kept me for a time
Where memory blackened noon;
I roomed above the shrunken tides
Beneath an iron moon.
For our waters winter in the northern
Dusk in a glittering ring
Which when they melt run south to swell
The terrible tides of spring
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Penn Fires Stiegman; No Successor Named
