David Boll
On waking
The eyes wince, as if at dawn light striking
Over sands roughed up and tumbled, over wreckage
Hurled above the tide line, over the stranded
Seaweed with its sour smell and hiss of flies.
The sea sulks and mumbles, shrunk behind muds.
Sea breeze moribund - cold and almost still.
So what dreamstorms, what in the dark
Got loose and pawed and tore it all up like this?
And what’s to be done? Let the fingers of a new tide
Advance and cool and smooth out these troubled sands.
Let day’s clear light make everything look in its place
And at its right size. Let debris lie harmless and rest.
Yet rise thoughtful. A power in the night
Ran loose. Unsteady the edge of the cliff.
Page(s) 43
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