No aims, no lords, just me, and the sea…
Snug in the lap and rock, the slop and plash
Diving deeper, the sleeper plumbs new depths
Of woozy deep, slithers, warm down the unseeable
Billowing liquid flames of the core, the temenos,
Breeched and hewn by exquisite heat, forging a
Pillowed inglenook in which to mosspot ease.
This is no dark blue luxus dreamt up
in tune or sketch, no symphonic flood,
folk smoke trail stream or ramble.
It lies here with the corpuscle
glitching grike soft timorous in the mammoth,
anemone corner of the one now clear
smiling eye behind the fourth stone.