Behind convolvulus and seeding grass
we park.
We see not one scuff or rip on the Strait
to show
two thousand years and more of heavy use.

Southward
across close-to-hand glitter and far-off
mauve haze
the other side if we believe our eyes
is not

there, just as we if we believe our eyes
are here
in a universe with a homely sky
and no
looming non-universes to scare it.

Below,
Waves arrange the shingle, each with a crisp
cadence.
The tide coming in balances the tide
going out.