Low Tide at Saint-Malo

The sea goes out so far at Saint-Malo
you could walk to England, almost,
if you did not mind the mud
and had nowhere to be by evening.

The rocks come up like the backs of animals
that have been asleep under the water
for a thousand years, and are not
in any hurry to wake.

A man is digging for clams with a fork.
A child is carrying a crab in both hands
the way you would carry a letter
that had to reach someone by tonight.

I stand where the harbour ends
and the wet sand begins, and I think of you,
which is to say I think of everything
that goes out and comes back.

The tide will turn at four.
It always does, the tables say so,
but still the whole beach waits for it
like a room waiting for a knock.

And when it comes, it comes all at once,
the way you did, the way the light does
over the walls of the old town,
the way I would like to learn to.