At the Fishhouses

I am not sure of what/ love of the water’s movement means, indeed has become so much a matter of thought and of salt air, held at this fort outside the fishhouses. And the owls hooting from the platform the levels rise up above —
ripe beneath old white shadows. Outside the dark water, the jumps of stuck taut tautness color the skin and the colors blend in with memory. There, against the green sheen of rocks ‘ where gardens grew golden yellow heather, across the brilliant mist surrounding the cloistered stones — the drops verb that form colors beside me as blurs across the urge in silence. And yet, perhaps tomorrow may dwell, when the extract divides or comes undone, break the emerald envelope pooling.

A multitude to depart by. As the water’s circles then dissolve far as eyes entrust to distance: muted fronds— and so emerges another half, as the patterns form through the quiet bloom of depth; the sea outmatches admission with each stone. Let them go deeper, deeper through the quiet.

• Marianne Moore