It must be hard to sail a boat without wonder,
a pure, childlike wonder at small things:
the colours of shallows over mud-banks, the wings
of cormorants drying on spit-posts, crabs going under
rocks, or simply blue, spray and a sail full of air.
And it is impossible to sail without knowing
of breaking-strains, and that just so much wind
can capsize a dinghy, and that nowhere
for all the simple beauty and all the showing
of freedom, is there any smallest estuary you can blind
with non-science, or lie to. Therefore when
I see men sailing dinghies there seem to be
with them and whispering at the last edge of the sea
clear shadows of much earlier men.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Paints a nice picture. [Get away from the KANGO'S also]