These posts which stud
the sterile sand
were a ship once,
as swift and beautiful
at least as all ships are,
but caught by chance
or captained by a fool
drifting drove on this shore.
These are no ship.
When tide flows deep
round weedy timbers fish
smooth-threading pass.
Tide out, on bright
days children splash
in sea-pools at their base,
or climb them, sit,
look out to sea,
ships sliding by…
Rooted and green
these seem (though without roots,
without sap,
their greenness not their own),
seem the trees, almost,
that were before the ship,