The Dyke-Builder

On the seventh day the storm lay dead,

The god who built the dyke strolled out to see

Blind men, blind windows, widows and the daft,

And the cracked shore carpeted with gulls.

On the ninth day no sunset red

Daubed the damp stubble: peacock blue, bright harmony

Of gold and purple laced the sky, and soft,

Ripe as a plum with joy danced the quick girls.

But on the eleventh day the dead

Looked from their priest-holes, seeing only sea,

And the green shark-cradles with their swift

Cruel fingers setting the ocean's curls.