She drops a freshly plaited flower crown Into contorted waters from the rail Adorned with two white crosses, tumbledown And green with moss. Along the current, frail And gliding towards the coast, the garland floats Until it disappears around a bend. The keening bells of distant fishing boats— Resounding, dull—announce the long day’s end. The river halts, then rises, wetting sedge And bearberry. The sluggish tidal pulse Accelerates, as if by sortilege, Impelling inland sodden rafts of dulse. And from the bridge’s span, she sees the wreath Come floating back and passing underneath.