Of Time and Tide

Skellig grew ethereal in our wake
As stone became shimmer in the heat.
But the gravestones in the high monastery
Wedged themselves still in the open earth
Of memory, their shadows reflecting
On the low-tide harbour where we landed
And climbed the iron ladder to the pier.
So much for the evening to reflect on:
Such distances in time, such tides.
And then, next day, to London, over

And back, to a funeral, to attend all
The ceremonies and return to the exact
Hour in the time it takes from one
Full tide to another. And I still cannot
Fathom it, nor take the measure of a span
When no man waits for time or tide
Nor takes note of his shadowself
Straggling in his wake, falling farther
And all the time farther behind, behind
Time itself, stranded between tides.

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