flailed from their meagre kernels
would starve out even an anchorite
if any tried
to force these idle flats to a spiritual purpose.
At Stonington, at Seabright,
they stand, not waiting,
only swaying a little in the wind,
as though to be a fact
among other facts -
to reflect their one particular
shade of pale yellowish green,
along with clouds and whatever occasional bird
happens to fly over,
into a transient pool
that the tide will shortly come back for -
in some sense, if not ours, should be enough.
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