 |
WAVE Something far out far off under asian cloud No line no limit but the invisible curve In a theorem of sea and sky, And no eye there to see no mind to prove it–– Wind brushed that fluent sleep. Wind from the planes The cold euclidean steppes… Shiver and stir. Ripple and flaw. Clouded stillness Darkens where the invisible wind curls up The waking wave. Ripple and ridge. Curtsy and dip and lop… Out from the puppet-shift and sway and stir The quick dancer walks. The dancer. Walking. Till the stilted walk Steadies And rolls And leagued in rolling seas the combers come Wind-driven in a thousand miles of fetch. Sombre and towering now the ridge, the windscrawl–– That slopes and forms and follows and casts back Self after fluent self. Only the form eternal (while the wind holds), The flowing shape through sea and sea and sea… Until at last self shape one moment one Break On the asking granite of the shore. |
||
 |
 |
||
© Harry Bruce, All Rights Reserved |
|
||