Sometimes she’d wade in toe to ankle to half
way up the calf. Sometimes stroll
along the lacy edge of the spill,
sand into sea, sea over sand, and
still not understand: to swim where you can stand
waveless, unwavering, is not to swim at all:
nor breathing in that shallow circumstance control,
and when she built a raft,
you couldn’t help but laugh a little to yourself
to see her paddle out like that, to see
her make for land that looks so
close, then flail those fin limbs as the coast shelf
falls away and one wave rolled over and through
its corkscrew path, predictable as folly.