Against the stones, the sea roars, Short breaths of wave and spray. Each tide, a capture of will, Each retreat, a promise sowed. The churning churns, And I, in stillness, wade, Measuring time in wet foot prints, Running and still, tracing lines, Each grain of sand a memory, Carved and swept—
What rises and falls, then I come to know the salt, Of fingers reaching into spaciousness, Skeletons soaking in whispers Of home and horizon.

• Margaret Atwood