Waves
I have sum too far
out of my depth
and the sun has gone;
the hung weight of my legs
a plumb-line,
my fingers raw, my arms lead;
the currents pull like weed
and I am very tired
and cold, and moving out to sea.
The beach is still bright.
The children I never had
run to the edge
and back to their beautiful mother
who smiles at them, looks up
from her magazine, and waves.
by Robin Robertson, Poetry 180
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