Rite of Passage

Late in an autumn day, when even on this hill
the air is still, I wait. Northeastward
the city shines, but I turn toward the land.

The nearer stands of grey or lichened beech
recede to distant blue; then the level sea.
In my head I hear the tide. Now ghosts

are gathering here; I am expecting them.
Stock-still in the sober gateway of death
they linger, looking back; like me

they cannot cease to see the drowsing sky,
the sweet horizon tipsy with bramble-mist.