In the sun's mid-day heat

I see the tall field grasses flow, swell

and come towards me in waves               

surging before the day's wind

the seed-head spume constantly bowing

seems to fall on the field strand where I stand.

The rhythmic onslaught of the waves

continues through the long afternoon - 

a tide of wind-driven swells and rollers

always flowing to my feet, waves

ever rolling forward

never drying

as if the same wave flooded again and again

Later, as I stand in the cottage doorway

I can still hear each swell

roll towards me

and subside

in a tidal

ebb

 

On how many beaches have I stood before the horizon

watching that same wind swell

for ever drive Neptune's vast expanse

to fall at my feet?

 

The rustle of the wind waves

comes to me all night long

through the open window

the deep grass

surging

then pulled back by an invisible undertow

as the wind drops

 

I remember keeping lookout on the fo'c'sle

and on calm nights always hearing

the fall of the waves turned back by the bow

and above that, the sound of the splashes

from the sea that reached higher

their music unceasing

beneath the stars

 

There are no stars tonight

but the waves splash

outside my door

 

Tomorrow the hay will be cut

and an eternal low tide

will not even

produce a ripple

in the breeze