The sea runs back against itself

With scarcely time for breaking wave

To cannonade a slatey shelf

And thunder under in a cave.

Before the next can fully burst

The headwind, blowing harder still,

Smooths it to what it was at first –

A slowly rolling water-hill.

Against the breeze the breakers haste,

Against the tide their ridges run

And all the sea’s a dappled waste

Criss-crossing underneath the sun.

Far down the beach the ripples drag

Blown backward, rearing from the shore,

And wailing gull and shrieking shag

Alone can pierce the ocean roar.

Unheard, a mongrel hound gives tongue,

Unheard are shouts of little boys;

What chance has any inland lung

Against this multi-water noise?

Here where the cliffs alone prevail

I stand exultant, neutral, free,

And from the cushion of the gale

Behold a huge consoling sea.



 

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