(1943)

That year the sea rose slowly from the plain / crashing into life swollen as an infant. — A thing of its own shadow traced out of the ripple. — Salt white over red sand passed from bosom into hand.

Everything that year stopped seeking / stopped struggling with it’s fate.

Things primal held in their primacy things with meanings unknown before. — A fleet of sea-ships auspiciously set strewn upon the floors bind the time and the space to a strange

and distant sounding place. Where the bleeding tide

fares a name and the breaking penumbra threads the swelling furrows of the plain passed from bosom into red.