At Popham Beach
Haze of wave spume towards Small Point,
Seguin Island Light like a whale's spout —
maybe life washes itself here, cools off.
It never comes clean. See all the sails up
and full in the windy parade of skin
and sand and brine. Soon the rocks will pluck
each wave's feathers. Soon the beach
like the moon, waning, will be 1/8th its size.
Somewhere else — maybe Ireland — the tide