Many women try it, the underworld descent.
I'm an old hand at journeys, making ready
where the horizon's edge is blue on blue,
gulls circle the dunes, bearing sea-gifts
from the twisting current and broken water
churns great drifts of seaweed. The tide's
edge dissolves in darkness. There is no
valley visible, or ridge. We drift down
to the jetty, talk quietly and look away.