Salt-swept depths of silence tinged with life
Of echoes and endless moments
Kept in caverns and pools of light
That age-old crack-worn span of rotten rocks and boards
Onrushing hints of slippery, greenery,
And each winter-mans fishing hoard
That which no eye has seen,
All have seen – by crab, or shellfish, or eel, or bream
Each shoal calls the shore its own
Each generation of mud-worm calls that sand his home
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