At Morecambe Bay
I sometimes look,
or long,
despite myself, for that day when we leave
and are gone
and the echo quiets
and passes,
that day when the hills recall
something
of themselves,
I think,
maybe grow a little taller,
and when
speech lies at the bottom
of the ocean,
swaddled in silt, an immaculate pearl,
aggravating nothing.
The Red Wheelbarrow No. 14