Philip Larkin


Rain patters on a sea that tilts and sighs. Fast-running floors, collapsing into hollows, Tower suddenly, spray-haired. Contrariwise, A wave drops like a wall: another follows, Wilting and scrambling, tirelessly at play Where there are no ships and no shallows. Above the sea, the yet more shoreless day, Riddled by wind, trails lit-up galleries: They shift to giant ribbing, sift away. Such attics cleared of me! Such absences!

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