Ancient boats have always wept and the sea
given a leaf, rows as if some tree
is still tracing the shoreline, waves
lifted higher, higher, till dead. Everywhere

and the young girl on the swing
is kissing someone —her eyes are closed
but you will open them,
the way every shore comes by sea

leaves by sea —you will hold her breath
and in each hand the water
warms, is lifted over your head

over the Earth and every wave
keeping count how even the light
pulls back, beating the air thinner and thinner
till even her leaving will disappear

and in this darkness the morning
you listen for, still hear it. is coming.

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This poem was engendered by a photograph published in Family of Man.