Estuary

But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar . . .
—Matthew Arnold

I’d wait each day for tide to turn
           as it released the locks
imprisoning the oyster-boats
           moored at the creek’s old docks,

and watch the sand bars disappear
           when morning’s current ran,
so knob-kneed piles beneath the pier
           across our cove began

to wade in deeper water as
           noon’s hour drifted by
and herring gulls upon their posts
           abandoned them to fly.

From oysters in the creek’s mud-flats
           jets arced in August’s sun
and sawgrass hushed its whispering,
           gradually overrun

by inundation of the cove
           like milk poured in a glass,
a quiet fullness everywhere
           until high tide had passed.

The tide still faithfully returns,
           its own lunatic round
predictable as day and night;
           and if that creek is drowned

today by swelling seas, its shore
           eroded, marsh effaced
and oysters just a memory
           of watermen displaced

by new homesites, shellfish disease,
           or toxins from upstream,
it is ourselves and not our faith
           receding like a dream.