The Afterlife of
Thomas Hardy
On Portland Sand
waters slide – sleek,
a sable halfling
creek
of seashell
contraband.
The kites, crescents
of hoisted blue,
spike or crash,
the wind too
much or little,
the sense
of distance lost
in spirals, set
against each
flaring jet
of tug-line
Pentecost.
The trippers
wade
the ribbon reach
of something
less than beach,
and will it to be made,
passing along
low meadow,
black-
thorn scrub and
tangled tack,
to catch the
sea’s sarong
of wavy green,
a change in
light,
a blink of
second sight
that’s conjured
to the mean,
but cannot tell
which ghost they
thought
would join them
there, caught
within the light
that fell,
the plot
offhand,
its curious
refrain – a footprint fuss
of fraying tides
and sand.
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