[ai] dry [ɪ] stiff [ʌ/ ʊ] could [ɒ] pocks [i:] between [əʊ] go [e/ eə:] bent
[ɑ:] far [ei] bay [ɜː] firm [ʊə/ u/ u:] dunes [au] round [æ] sand [ɔː/ ɔɪ ] shore
Shore Woman
Man to the hills, woman to the shore.
Gaelic proverb
I
have
crossed
the
dunes
with
their
whistling
bent
Where
dry
loose
sand
was
riddling
round
the
air
And
l’m
walking
the
firm
margin.
White
pocks
Of
cockle,
blanched
roofs
of
clam
and
oyster
Hoard
the moonlight,
woven
and
unwoven
Off the bay. At the far rocks
A pale sud comes and goes.
Under
boards
the mackerel
slapped
to death
Yet
still
we
took
them
in
at
every
cast,
Stiff flails of cold convulsed with their first breath.
My
line
plumbed
certainly
the
undertow,
Loaded
against
me
once
I
went
to draw
And
flashed
and
fattened
up
towards
the light.
He
was
all
business
in
the
stern.
I
called
'This is so easy that it's hardly right,'
But he unhooked and coped with frantic fish
Without speaking. Then suddenly it lulled,
We'd
crossed
where
they
were
running,
the line
rose
Like
a
let-down
and
I was
conscious
How
far
we'd
drifted
out
beyond
the head.
'Count
them
up
at
your
end,'
was
all
he
said
Before
I
saw
the porpoises'
thick
backs
Cartwheeling
like
the flywheels
of
the
tide,
Soapy
and
shining.
To
have seen
a hill
Splitting
the water
could
not
have
numbed
me
more
Than
the close
irruption
of
that
school,
Tight viscous muscle, hooped from tail to snout,
Each
one
revealed
complete
as
it
bowled
out
And
under.
They will attack a boat.
I knew it and I asked him to put in
But he would not, declared it was a yarn
My people had been fooled by far too long
And he would prove it now and settle it.
Maybe
he
shrank
when
those
sloped
oily
backs
Propelled
towards
us:
I
lay
and
screamed
Under
plashed
brine
in
an open
rocking
boat
Feeling
each
dunt
and
slither
through
the timber,
Sick
at
their
huge
pleasures
in
the
water.
I
sometimes
walk
this strand
for thanksgiving
Or
maybe
it's
to get
away
from
him
Skittering his spit across the stove. Here
Is the taste of safety, the shelving sand
Harbours
no
worse
than
razor-shell
or
crab
-
Though
my
father
recalls
carcasses
of
whales
Collapsed
and
gasping,
right
up
to
the dunes.
But
to-night
such
moving
sinewed
dreams
lie
out
In
darker
fathoms,
far beyond
the head.
Astray upon a debris of scrubbed shells
Between parched dunes and salivating wave,
I have rights on this fallow avenue,
A membrane between moonlight and my shadow.