Liminal at Llanystumdwy by Maureen Fenton

Voice 1:          What is that sound? It comes again, like thunder.

Voice 2:          It is the turning tide that touches the harbour wall

                      with hungry fingers that have learnt the taste of stone.

Voice 1:          Again it comes, like the tolling bell

                      of the old-town church.

                      When will it hush?

Voice 2:          Not till the green-swell waves have made their peace

                      with the wind of the east, and withered back

                      from the flinty stones.

Voice 1:          How long will it take for the sharp-faced sand

                      to eat up the fury of that tide? Will I grow old

                      before the sea’s retreat?

Voice 2:          If you but stand, hold fast this rail, and watch another hour,

                      then sea will sink and land will rise and you

                      can step down on that shore.

Voice 1:          Then will I watch, and wait in hope.

                      Let others, impatient, turn away.

                      When salt-sparked sand glints a welcome,

                      and the roar of the sea has shrunk

                      to a gentle shushing, then will I step between

                      land and sea, take pebbles and shells,

                      draw strange signs with a sun-bleached stick,

                      pattern there my own memorial,

                      gift the tide my final and forever mark.