It is hard, inland,
——in winter,
when the fields are motionless in snow,

to remember waves, to remember
——the wide, sloshing
immensity

of the Atlantic, continuous,
——green in the cold, taking snow
or rain into itself,

to realize the endurance
——of the tilting bell buoy
(hour by hour, years

through) that clangs, clangs,
——leaning
with the rocking waters, miles

from land; even in storm and
——night-howling
snow, wet, red, flashing

to mark the channel. Some
——things
are, even if no one comes.