40 Old Rocks out in the Late Light Chill air and the sea sunk, like a lake In drought-time, back from the gray sand, A bright place the size of a man’s hand On the waves, where the light comes through a break In low clouds. And the striped rocks. They take The eye between flat sea and land, Humped, leaning, pale band by dark band, Green-bearded, dripping, with pools that quake In the raw breeze. Here’s one pokes out At our cliffs a heavy upper jaw That with the lower grips in its maw The sand I cross. Surely the brief light Is holy, and holy the darkness light Makes when it goes, but not that snout. 81