COAST YARN.

Skies pebbled with stars, Sea, breathing like a sleeping animal, Wind nuzzling wet shagginess of moors. The coarse bright strains of an accordion, Perversely stretched and shrunken Against a wall of dark. Brown faces, high cheekbones, Polyglot sea-words; A cold, dark swiftness; Hardness of diligence For shrewd, tight-fisted gain. The Cranberry Pickers dance gravely In squalid shacks on the moors, And the greasy bottles pass From old lips to young; Rough doorways blurt out light; White teeth, dark eyes shine. There is chattering wharf talk And garbled dock yard French; Clamdiggers, Scallopers, Fondle their dirty rolls Of smoky dollar bills And stride in booted ease. Out of the moorland night She, saucily, slips in, Thistledown on her hair; Little, slim, ear-ringed, scarlet-bloused, Her feet and impertinent breasts four mischievous mongrel words In a universal language; Her mouth gleams like berries, Swamp-light in her eyes— Someone clasps, someone curses— Then screams; a knife.... The sea, like an animal panting; The sands, scared and white, Broken barrels of cranberries Strewn like unholy rosaries; A man, stripped and bleeding, Thrown overboard at midnight Where the tide runs strong. On a small brown neck A long gold chain To match new earrings!