September Water

In the quiet sunlight of September

The harbor's top is blond and burnished stone.

Any swimmer who cuts that width of stillness

Is scorched with cold to the marrow of the bone.

The tide no longer rustles; only waiting

Holds it as a gleam holds dormant bells.

It gives its calm attention to a pink crab

Or to the far-down pearl of mussel shells.

The swimmer floats over henna sand and brown sand.

The calico print of every pebble is clear.

He feels the faint hostility of winter

Flavoring the water with a fear.