Читать книгу No One Can Stem the Tide - Jane Tyson Clement - Страница 7

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Gull, at the water’s edge

mirrored in shining sand,

sleek in the silver wind

blown from the land;

in the clear fall of dark

past the thin pools of tide

with the gray sanderlings

swift at his side.

Outward beyond the eye

reaches the solitude

out to the end of time

where the winds brood.

One with his element,

quiet, unquestioning,

still, when the spill of wave

scurries the sanderling.

Dusk, and the spell of sea,

tide smell and all the vast

air for his wings when he

rises at last.