this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up
in house or office, factory or woman
or street or mine or harsh prison cell,
...
I must feel the crash of the hard water
and gather it up in a perpetual cup
so that, wherever those in prison may be,
wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,
I may be there with an errant wave,
I may move, passing through windows,
and hearing me, eyes will lift themselves,
asking, "How can I reach the sea?"
And I will pass to them, saying nothing,
the starry echoes of the wave,
a breaking up of foam and quicksand,
a rustling of salt withdrawing itself,
the gray cry of the sea-birds on the coast.
So, through me, freedom and the sea
will call in answer to the shuttered heart
« return.