The Abandoned Deep (1976)

A wet wind brushed my face:
those jagged clouds are not angels:
Mother, I long for a bleaker space,

free to roam with grey eyes
among the grim legion of dead
November trees where voices cry

For the darkening coils of a sea
Reaching for the petrel moon.
Such deaths as mine cannot be grieved

By the ticking of a clock
Or the payment of a sum.
Abandoned souls cannot dock

In garden or bay. Instead let winds
lash and hurl their furies on me:
wave-weary boulders are my closest kin.