LOSS

The sea called—

you faced the estuary,

you were drowned as the tide passed.—

I am glad of this—

at least you have escaped.

The heavy sea-mist stifles me.

I choke with each breath—

a curious peril, this—

the gods have invented

curious torture for us.

One of us, pierced in the flank,

dragged himself across the marsh,

he tore at the bay-roots,

lost hold on the crumbling bank—

Another crawled—too late—

for shelter under the cliffs.

I am glad the tide swept you out,

O beloved,

you of all this ghastly host

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