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.