63 Noon Swimmers, Plovers, a Young Heron, a Grebe People are black on silver this mid-day Far up the beach, the waves withdrawing show Light rustling in the grit, the plovers throw Shadows appearing solider than they, And the young heron that lives here flaps away And alights up ahead in the backflow That glares more silver as it slips below The nubs of the bright foam, the sunny spray, While the grebe I come on has been lying dead, At the water’s edge, on his back. His wings are spread As if in flight. He looks heraldic, too — Like the scrawny phoenix D.H. Lawrence drew. But this bird’s missing an eye; draggled and sad Lies here for a little the only self he had. 123