High Tide

The tide is lapping brownly round the trees,
the water smelling salty and exciting
and in the dark, the gentle swilling seas
as they rise up, are quietly inviting.

The still, cold night, does not seem charged with fear,
the street lights burning greenly white and clear
accentuate the old domestic scene,
in contrast to the wildness in its midst
the tension now, just as it's always been.

The footpath by the grey-brown brine is kissed;

the licking, sucking, gentle, splashing sound,
is just the moon, taking its loving parting,
absenting, for a while, but not forsaking,
this piece of muddy, saturated ground.