Deep in the field that summer day,
we found the salt lick cast away,
it seemed to us — we didn’t know
what use it had — a block of rock,
raspberry red in clovered grass,
beneath the oaks.

Then, seeing neither cows nor men,
we rolled it down the blazing green
above the cliffs that ranged along
the western edge of world and time,
above the waves, into the sun,
late in the day in ‘68.

I did regret that minor theft,
and wondered what the seals made
of such a thing upon their beach.
How long, I thought, before the tide
reached out and welcomed salt to salt?
But looking back, I must confess,
to just a touch of boyish pride.