A cannon shot in 1794
began a wave that beat upon the shore
and back again, a surge of marbled gray
that ran against the quays of Malabar
and twisted, tangled, ran once more away;
you remember that year
my darling, centuries after, when one small wave
rocked against our hands in seeming play?
The sea was shining then as once before
under the filtered sun at the closing of the day.