There is a place
Where the sea
Amorously rubs its ragged scummy back
Around a pier, and growls,
And passionately sighs to bury itself forever
And wrap a sheet
Around the wooden stilts
And girders existing below
The wide kneed, long suffering, bare legs
Of a woman's patience.
The little fingers of the sea
Draw vibrations in the chilly sand.
Ridge and groove wind on.
The hand that lightly clasps
The land writes on.
A forgotten shell rasps on a single grain of sand.
A low muttering is a song.
We stood very close on the edge of the pier
(how soon can a universe die)
where desk chair and shelter
prop up the striped sky.
Facing the salt is a shot
That glazes the eyes and seizes the neck.
The seamless sea, spread out and jumping,
Cannot escape the nylon threads.
With a roar,
They threw a dogfish on to the boards.
It screamed inaudibly, but I could hear,
And the sparkling body fought with the air.
A second, then,
They all rushed forward
People rushed forward
People came forward
And two plump rosy nuns
With little whiskers
Smiled to each other
That smile of greatness of soul,
And dragging their dreary skirts
Leaned forward
To see them stab, stab,
Stab the sheath of striving muscle
Just below the grin
And let the blood run out
On to the boards.
A little pen-knife, a little blood,
And a little time grinds to its half.
There is a place where the sea draws back
And leaves the stilts
Gooseflesh
And the hot sticky bed of the sea
Wants our toes.
A kiss hangs in the
Magic air
Air shimmering
Not your lips
Not mine
Just the sea
Under the pier
Lingering about in pools on a bed of cooling love.
1960