It feels like an achievement, emptiness
Reorganized to make the matter plain.
In the long pool trapped behind the shingle bank
The sky is blue and bitter.
Amstel cratesAnd ragged scalps of weed have likewise
Been reconsidered, while the sea
Has gone somewhere as if for good:
No distance has been spared
And the horizon is revealed as yet another
Obsolescent form of measurement,
Leaving only the sublime
By which to take a sun-blind bearing.
It’s freezing when we stroll onstage—
We find the rake is steeper now—
As if at last we ought to broach
The fundamentals wisely put aside
Long since in weatherproof compartments
For such a day as this.
But instantly it’s clear
That ours will not be speaking parts.
The gulls will do all that. In this austerity
Of blazing salt-charged air and stunned geology
We’re only here to represent the crowd
Who cross and go to do the greeting
And the mourning, further on and further out.