Of jaws held just apart; in the opening,
Where I now run, no room for anything
But the cliff s, now bleakly pale where they are bare.
At the horizon, a low, cold light just where
The sun has set; I watch it briefl y cling
At the sea's rim -- clear God-light, the real thing --
While I run on through suddenly darkening air.
Under the cliff s are sanderlings and plovers
Busy with their last feeding for the day;
And a few people -- a lone girl there, two lovers,
An old lady with her dog; and part way
Down the cliff ahead a house hangs, with a fl ight
Of stairs down to the beach, and window light.
The place is lived in always. There was the sight
You could have seen in clear, still evening light,
Of a girl trimming a bearded young man's hair
Out on the littered deck, and you might hear
The little dog's wow-wow! when running late
And alone below; for months a drying skate
Swung under the deck, wetsuits and suchlike gear
Hang from the railings. Looks like a fi ne life.
Sometimes one of them waves as they come and go
Casually in view of us passersby below,
While they hang half in the air on the steep clay;
That the house is going, waves chewing away,
Is habit-knowledge with them, as between man and wife.
was interviewed in the paper: "I know what it's like to live with the sound of concrete popping,
but when you love to live here ...."