The Island at Night

In Memory of my Father

Question has driven me back at length to the island.
And I come to its unchanged coast and stand on a shore
Where gradual salt waves strike the slatey sand
Mildly as wind. All seems the same, but far
More pure than I had imagined. In the end
I find things I can touch. Gray shells, warm as before,
And broken glass, dulled by the steady sea,
Lie in my hand. If these are true, then what are memory

And knowledge? Once I learned the abstract outline
Of the island. I held in mind the unshifting delicate
Indentation of the coves and the masculine
Fragmented rock of the promontory, cut
Out of Narragansett Bay. But maps define
A mental place, a fixed idea of what
The island might be-not what it is-less
Than it is, as a remembered word is less

Than a voice saying it. Sound is heard. Shrill cries
Quicken the air, the hidden foxes' barking.
Now I hear, singly, many sweet bird calls rise
And waver, riding the salt sands before morning.
Rain dissolves the darkness. As my eyes
Find the island, it becomes real, and I, touching
The sand, discover the clear, immediate thing
I know in sense only-hold, love, and let go.

　

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