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
Turned to the sun,
At rest a space
Till is begun
When tide comes in,
The growl and groans,
The quiet din
Of rolling stones.

1924