Tokens

Roofs folded in and stepped against
the sea's retaining wall:
where the gulls creak
in the knocking wind
and the sea is climbing the stones of the stair.

Stood
counting waves in the dark:
the seen pulse of a hidden drum.
Spinning our the six white stones to her,
the tokens.

Walking widdershins to a cold curve,
sea brink and stone collide: the coming night
become drenched rock, the churning wind;
waves become faces, their cries
becoming tide.

[Robin Robertson, from "A Painted Field", 1997 - Photo by Lasse Hoile]