The Estuary

There is no shore!

where should be sand

and mile-long

tumbled strips of river littoral,

where should be water-birds

and the firm, vertical

breakwater and bank,

the shallow tide has spread

shivering on a sunlit afternoon

to the very lip of the land

and holds there still,

straining above itself

when the rich light-beams slip

through brief tarnishes of cloud

so that houses across the water

lie hull-down dancing white on the back of the hand

impersonal, sinister,

a mere idea.