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
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
On the asking granite of the shore.

© Harry Bruce, All Rights Reserved