THERE IS TIME
(For W.H. Auden)

With my hand
here in modern London
reading Auden
here is an exiled time for
silence in the dawn
to reach out for pardon
among the shells and rocks
even to view the night squalls
in the home harbor's sun
at a park in an English garden
going over to Dover
watching the last white swan
over the waves appear
as a sea voice bird motions
in perfect harmony and pitch
away from the ditch water
and I've done taking out the boat
into the Atlantic ocean.