High Tide

Vera Newsom

There is a long silence every poet dreads
when heat clouds the sky mauve-grey
and there is not the faintest flicker of a leaf

The self is like a limp curtain hanging still
until a southerly has swept the stagnant air
turning it cool and clean.

Now the body’s framework stands upright
and flesh is curved as if a sculptor might
have worked in clay to build up form and shape.

The wide doors of the boatshed are propped open,
and the skiff waits on the slipway—but not yet.
The swimmer dives, and rises, shaking

his sleek, wet head. Water, air. His body
can never have enough. He braces himself
against the pull of the incoming tide. His limbs

are fluid. He lets them go with the current,
drinks in the departing light, the first points of stars
and a ghost moon turning gold.

He swims through the broad band of light, then floats
counting the stars until they form in clusters
he can’t decipher. Odd words come

like fish leaping. Tireless,
down the long track of gold he travels.
Water under the moon’s pull bulges

over the beach. Now he can speak
with the tide’s voice. Darkness,
night and the moon are his.