I walk at the land’s edge,turning in my minda private predicament.Today the sea is indigo.Thirty years an adult –same mind, sameridiculous quandaries –but every time the seaappears differently: todaya tumultuous dream,flinging its waves ashore –Nothing resolved,I tread back over the moor– but every time the moorappears differently: this evening,tufts of bog-cottonunbutton themselves in the wind– and then comes the roadso wearily familiarthe old shining roadthat leads everywhere