The Drowning

The rust of hours,
Through a year of days,
Has dulled the edge of the pain;
But at night
A wheel in my sleep
Grinds it smooth and keen.

By day I remember
A face that was lit
With the softness of human pattern;
But at night
It is changed in my sleep
To a bygone carved in chalk.

A cottage inland
Through a year of days
Has latched its doors on the sea;
But at night
I return in my sleep
To the cold, green lure of the waters.