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                    PATRICIA PRIME

                  Tidelines

                          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.