A streak of skunk-scent a little further down.
Sea quiet in the late dusk. No moon
As yet. The hard sand uneven underfoot,
Much trampled on. An airliner's headlight
Makes a big white star in the orange coming on
In thin clouds fanning out from the set sun --
Orange, and a real green, staying clear and bright!
But what I think of's the Britisher with the dripping nose
Who thinks we'll think he's tough because he says
Evil is tough and sure of itself and Good
Is gentle, irresolute. You know how it goes?
St. Thomas More, for instance, living in a daze?
Samuel Johnson, so lacking in hardihood?
In the chill of the sundown, some of them regulars --
Old tilt-hat's there on his bench, photographers
Stand waiting for the colors to appear
As the sun drops. Pelicans swing in near
The fl at beach where the sea now mildly stirs.
They fl y in line, casting a row of blurs
Of pelicans on the slick swells they barely clear....
The boys are home, all three of them this time.
But they ran earlier. Turning back I pause
To watch the dead white half moon on its climb,
Which one of them said, a lunar month ago,
"Looks like a helmet" as he rejoined his slow
Parent along this stretch. And so it does.