Canon HD Rawnsley
IV LOW TIDE IN THE ESTUARY, BARMOUTH.
The river failed as if a wizard’s wand
Had smote it; where dark Idris mirrored lay,
Behind his woody skirts and range of grey,
Was unreflecting waste and wrinkled sand;
No life, no light, but here and there a band
Of hyacinthine blue, that stole away,
Like to a guilty thing, toward the bay,
And left the boats heeled helpless on the strand.
Then from the central sea a whisper came,
The salt white water swam as smooth as oil,
Swept o’er the shoals of sun and flickering gold.
Other, but inconceivably the same,
Incessant, but without a sign of toil,
Renewing all, the generous tide was rolled.
Sonnets Round the Coast