These songs Were loud last when you were fast In my days like water in its bed: Molten light, wood smoke banks, promise that horizons stand, a far off blue-salt heaven. I do not know if I owe thanks For the ache of this recall, rushing in tides Across the cracked mud and dross of Channels that have for years been dry And which the next hot noon will drain. I do not know, but I shall refrain From turning.