I

At high tide, at water's edge, on the pebbles

You load the dinghy only with yourself;

Even the cast iron anchor stays ashore,

The rusty anchor and short chain

Which kept you from drifting off so

Many times before. It is you, the oars

And oarlocks in the dinghy Esperance

II. There are no farewells; they do not

Know you are here on the beach

So early this morning. Only the Black

Dog stares in wonder and barks.

An oar a pole, you shove off, untangled,

Blear eyes fixed on the Mainland,

The tow rope pointed toward Heart Island.

The wake divides in two behind

And sends into eddies the sparkles

Of the sun, facets of the sea jewel,

Deep water afloat with green seaweed,

Yellowing in the dazzling light.

The journey is not far: at a league

A school of mackerel, sudden, crowds

About the boat, leaping toward

Some other destination. Starboard

The dinghy tips with your weight

As you bend and glance toward

The Heart Island littoral.

It is noon

Of the summer of your life. You land

On Heartbreak Beach, the shingle,

It seems, littered with photographs

Of all the men and women you once

Thought beautiful -- a gust, oh,

Sweeps these little snapshots,

Fluttering, into the swell of the sea.

The gulls cry above the mussels

While you recite to the starfish

A secular litany of renunciation.