Denise Levertov

The Tide

While we sleep
mudflats will gleam
in moonwane, and mirror
             earliest wan daybreak
             in pockets and musselshell hillocks, before
a stuttering, through dreams, of
lobsterboats going out, a half-
awakening, a re-

living of ebbing dreams as morning ocean
returns to us, a turning
from light towards more dreams, intelligence of
what pulls at our depths for

I hear

the tide turning. Last
eager wave over-
taken and pulled back
by first wave of the ebb. The pull back
by moon-ache. The great knots
of moon-awake energy
far out.