[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
Man to the hills, woman to the shore.
Where dry loose sand was riddling round the air
And l’m walking the firm margin. White pocks
Hoard the moonlight, woven and unwoven
Off the bay. At the far rocks
A pale sud comes and goes.
Yet still we took them in at every cast,
Stiff flails of cold convulsed with their first breath.
Loaded against me once I went to draw
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,
Like a let-down and I was conscious
'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
Than the close irruption of that school,
Tight viscous muscle, hooped from tail to snout,
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.
Propelled towards us: I lay and screamed
Feeling each dunt and slither through the timber,
Sick at their huge pleasures in the water.
Or maybe it's to get away from him
Skittering his spit across the stove. Here
Is the taste of safety, the shelving sand
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.