At the height of the hawthorn bush
in horizontal wing-hung line
across this path
three swans fly between me and the sea.
From the window, the shape of the sea pool
is a hide of leather stretched over the land.
The marshes with web-printed mud
and two black swans
loosen their necks into Ss and hearts
in graceful trance of courtship.
Now the moon edges the waves’ rearing
We stand on the stones of the shore;
The sea is like our heartbeat you say.
Our hearts beat as waves come in
as quiet and quick as death.