Viewing page 25 of 153

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

A Span of Sea

This day as a nameless as a span of sea
Arrives in continents of fog
Low under a guise of daytime
Over Nigh Duck and shoal and bog.

It would seem that this were gladly all,
Place without place, horizon nor wish,
Finality unowned as the lichened rock, 
As casual as the bleached bones of fish.

But the tips of spruce are flames
Lit on an ashen yesterday, or last year.
We scan the sky for the glassy spot
Where the sun is most likely to appear.

Being hunted always by otherness:
North recalling south, [[strike through]] wide sea its edge.
The sounds of the world break in the bay,
And continents come to rest upon a ledge.