Mary Oliver

Winter And the waves gush pearls from their snowy throats as they come leaping over the moss-green, black-green, glass-green roughage — as they crumble on the incline scattering whatever they carry in their invisible and motherly hands: stones, seaweed, mussels icy and plump with waled shells, waiting for the gatherers who come flying on their long white wings — who come walking, who comes muttering: thank you, old dainties, dark wreckage, coins of the sea in my pockets and plenty for the gulls and the wind still pounding and the sea still streaming in like a mother wild with gifts — in this world I am as rich as I need to be. spoken = Susannah Wood