An arm of reef half locks it in, and holds
The bottom of the bay deep strewn with seaweed,
A barn full of the harvesting of storms;
And at full tide, the little hampered waves
Lift up the litter, so that, against the light,
The yellow kelp and bracken of the sea,
Held up in ridges of green water, show
Like moss in agates. And there is no place
In all the coast for wreckage like this bay;
There often will my grannam be, a sack
Over her shoulders, turning up the crust
Of sun-dried weed to find her winter's warmth.

_Sylvan_.
Is that she coming?

_Katrina_.
O Sylvan, has she seen us?

_Sylvan_.
What matter if she has?

_Katrina_.
But it would matter!

_Sylvan_.
Katrina, come with me now! We'll go together
Back to my house.

_Katrina_.