Shingle

 

When stars are bright and lights are low

I hear at night the undertow.

The distant scream of pebbles round

As down they stream with rasping sound,

Sucked by the sea from where they lie

Turned dreamily towards the sky.

They have no rest when tides are high

And winds are west, but roll and sigh.

When sun doth rise in sky of green

The shingle lies all washed and clean,

Each pebble face warm in the sun,

At rest a space; till is begun,

When tide comes in, the growl and groans,

The quiet din of rolling stones.