A calling
       for Ruth Dallas
 

& there
was ‘no cry of child or gull’
        except your voice across
the flung spray, the blown spume
            the rain-wet sand . . .

Ah yes,
you were surely the stranger –
        & primal discoverer
of wet grass, the smell of apples,
             autumn leaves.

Now 
while the clouds bring gentle rain
      we summon you back – 
to walk as you say among ‘men
            with tall bones’.

Ah yes,
you offer us one of your books
     open at a page presenting
‘waves on stone’, weeds that move
           ‘like floating hair’. . .

& there’s
nothing more that needs to be said
      of summer storms
winter skies, of shimmering stars,
             the dawn’s clear light.

& there's
nothing more that needs to be said
       of the shimmering stars
or summer storms - what they
             & the moonlight share.