Stephen Robertson

Slanting Lines

Wells in winter

We take the path beside the wood—the fir

and silver birch along the dunes that run

between the marshes and the sea.  The sun

is low ahead of us, the sky is clear.

Across the wood, onto the beach.  We hear

the gulls, and faintly, far away, the churn

of waves upon the sand.  Eastwards we turn,

along the open beach, in rich sea air.

Look up, look up, my love—the sky is calling.

Dark shapes are calling each to each: a throng

moves north against the fading evening light.

Slanting lines are forming, breaking, forming

ordered chaos with a raucous song:

A thousand geese are flying into night.