Ebbing
After the heat this walk to the sea That floats with liquid fire, To the great rocks leaning thirstily With a terrible desire To suck up the ebbing tide. The wind lifts your eyelids wide With coolness as we come back To the quarry’s deceptive edges And the moon on a cloudy plaque; Hearing from under the ledges A bullfrog pluck a water-soaked string. There are water tones in your words to me There is color of water in everything. Why are you crying—suddenly?
-Ruth Langland Holberg












