Edwin John Dove Pratt

The Drowning

     The rust of hours,
    Through a year of days,
Has dulled the edge of the pain;
    But at night
A wheel in my sleep
    Grinds it smooth and keen.

    By day I remember
    A face that was lit
With the softness of human pattern;
    But at night
    It is changed in my sleep
To a bygone carved in chalk.

    A cottage inland
    Through a year of days
Has latched its doors on the sea;
    But at night
    I return in my sleep
To the cold, green lure of the waters.