Where the three magenta
Breakwaters take the shove
And suck of the grey sea
 
To the left, and the wave
Unfists against the dun
Barb-wired headland of
 
The Deer Island prison
With its trim piggeries,
Hen huts and cattle green
 
To the right, and March ice
Glazes the rock pools yet,
Snuff-colored sand cliffs rise
 
Over a great stone spit
Bared by each falling tide,
And you, across those white
 
Stones, strode out in you dead
Black coat, black shoes, and your
Black hair till there you stood,
 
Fixed vortex on the far
Tip, riveting stones, air,
All of it, together.

  • 0
  • 0
  •  
  •  
Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Sylvia Plath...

Some poets who follow Sylvia Plath...

Palabras huérfanas R. L. McCallum Reem Chactas Alosa Geraldine Sánchez