Cape Clear Island Poem by Michael O'Sullivan

No shapes nor fine geographies will spring
Around me on this Island place.
I study water worrying a rock and know
How countless eyes have seen this present glint,
A thousand minds have mourned its darkening face.

What sculptor, so meticulous,
Scorned the long millenia,
Apportioned rock and shadow, cave and hill,
So that minute perfection reached such
Exemplary silences, that words themselves
Became a monstrous change
And visionaries fools who groped
For what was already pounding there?