Where the three magenta
Breakwaters take the shove
And suck of the grey sea
To the left, and the wave
Unfists against the dun
Barb-wired headland of
The Deer Island prison
With its trim piggeries,
Hen huts and cattle green
To the right, and March ice
Glazes the rock pools yet,
Snuff-coloured sand cliffs rise
Over a great stone spit
Bared by each falling tide,
And you, across those white
Stones, strode out in your dead
Black coat, black shoes, and your
Black hair till there you stood,
Fixed vortex on the far
Tip, riveting stones, air,
All of it, together.