No One Can Stem the Tide. Jane Tyson Clement

ripples all day long –

      thrush and vireo, and in the dark

      the harsh cicada; and my soul must fail,

      starve for the sudden, final thrust of sea

      over the earth’s curve, for the steady sun

      that now the hills devour when day is done.

      7

      OCEAN

      The birds that fly

      in a shifting pattern

      over the sea

      with their eyes turned downwards –

      what do they find

      in the shining water?

      Here on the shoal

      the small waves crumble

      bright in the sun

      as the gull’s swift pinion,

      green and clear

      in the depth of shadow.

      Inland the osprey

      bears its burden,

      yield from the sea

      out of these waters;

      out of this field

      a shining harvest.

      8

      SUMMER NIGHT STORM

      The ranting of the gods, this tumbling sky,

      this wind-strong rain which pelts against my cheek,

      the world re-lit by lightning, and the lie

      of tall sea grass low bent against the sand.

      I stand here, strangely still, with all the world

      tumultuous at my feet, and yet my heart

      is stronger than the roaring wind that swirls

      about my body, taut against its force;

      that blows my eyelids shut, that locks my lips,

      lest all my spirit end its restlessness

      in one wild song.

      9

      BAY HEAD

      This beach is the crumbled bone of many years;

      who can construct again the skeleton

      and join the scattered grains to their old form?

      This sea is the blood and tears of all the ages;

      who can define in it a single wound or grief –

      so vast and mingled is the tide of pain?

      Yet as the night floods darkness and the day

      holds us in light, we walk earth’s changing shore,

      a brief path through the winds of good and evil,

      and of loneliness –

      Therefore the sand and sea await us.

      10

      The inland is not safe from sea;

      here where the meadows hold the day

      and tongues are of the earth, the fields,

      the sea-mind still is safe and free.

      Perhaps it walks a little worn

      between the elm and peakéd pine

      or wakens restless to the sounds

      of vigorous, healthy, country morn,

      or finds the nights too long, too still,

      lacking the rush and draw of wave,

      or feels the eye cheated by the dark,

      the sharp sky-crowding rise of hill.

      But yet the wind of sea will run

      the length of valleys and be here

      sudden and full of space and wide

      waters all leaping with the sun.

      11

      EBB TIDE

      The tide will claim this shallow curve of sand

      here where the thin waves curl and creep and die.

      See – in this river no deeper than my hand

      the young crab, pale and calico, slips by

      into a safer, less tempestuous sea.

      The eel, as silver and as quick as steel,

      answers the sun; one moment he is free,

      then the bird drops: a brief white circling wheel

      cleaving the air, to splash, complete the arc;

      the waters flicker, close, and leave no mark.

      Take now this era, while the lengthening bars

      stretch in the tawny shoals along the shore;

      soon the sure rhythm of the moon and stars

      will send the pliant waters in once more.

      12

      WINTER COAT

      Gulls on the lonely beach

      under the brooding sky;

      over the darkened marsh

      one gray gull’s cry.

      Wrack strewn upon the strand,

      shards from the summer sea;

      ripples from rising tide

      creeping to me.

      Winter is on the air,

      sand drifted like the snow;

      all the cold sky above,

      sorrow below.

      Boarded and silent wait

      window and shuttered door.

      Oh, will the summer joy

      waken no more?

      Summer of all mankind,

      harvest from field and sea –

      shattered and blown away –

      no more to be?

      Oh, but the promise lies

      safe in His waiting hand;

      sunrise again shall light

      shimmering sand!

      13

      AT THE SHORE

      Out of the black pool of sleep

      the broken images like scattered sunlight

      merge into morning, and I wake.

      Here where the sea beats unangered

      the gray gulls waddle along in the gray misty morning

      and rise on white wings over the white sea

      transformed into grace in their own element.

      Must we take lessons always from everything –

      gulls fat and ridiculous dabbling their feet in the tide-pool,

      gulls flying sublime with the sunlight silver upon them?

      Better return to sleep and waken prosaic.

      We were meant to both dabble and soar,

      and even the loveliest wings get weary.

      14

      STALKING A GULL