Surf

It's a long three miles tothe curved white shore,
Yet the woods grow wondrous with the roar.
Through silver-belted shadow confounding,
Come the sea noises pounding, pounding,
Perpetual somnambular beat
That shakes the hard ground under my feet.
That sound in the dark long years since wrought
A danger in our fathers’ thought.
It will come hereafter, perturbing the dream
Of who of our children may be or seem.
They I l turn on their beds in the night unstarred
When another Northeaster’s breathing hard,
And their thoughts will fumble with imminent,
strange,
Ancient uproar of things that change.
Slowly, slowly, the pebble is ground
In the tide-rolled shingle nearer the round.
Slowly, slowly, the silver arc
Of the new beach shapes in the fog-shot dark.
Slowly, slowly, the cliffs cut under,
The channel is filled, and the sand bars sunder
Slowly, slowly, with thunderous, numbing
Throb of a thing not known, becoming.