Ebbing

Ruth Langland Holberg

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?