The Tide of Winter

Standing on a scoured shore

Pulverised water hissed and roared

Busy forging sound from noise

A rolling cascade of tumbling bells

In endless repetition as waves and waves

Lift and fall, rolling over and under

Grinding together, now splitting asunder

This is the tide of winter

A ripping swell of light-dark silver

Grinding knives churning tightly together

Whispering bubbles, upsurging from somewhere

Hypnotic rhythm

Of bristling splinters