No more pain, the wind says -
You've been too long in its quicksand.
Beyond the muteness,
Beyond the cravenness,
There's this -
This inlet where the tide comes in
These limpet-strewn rocks and
The orange beak of the oystercatcher
In the dim winter light.
Yes, layer upon layer has been stripped,
But what of wildness?
On this rain-lashed beach
It will no longer wait.
It wants me back:
I have been on loan to civility for far too long.
