Elementa Poem by Anneke Brassinga

If every instant's an obscure beginning
of aftermath that only after centuries
will shed light upon this now -

the known words are but stellar glimmerings
arriving breathless, far too late.
What does that leave us to talk about?

Only the water's enticing murmuration
in strictured present tense, no rope
to tag onto; least of all

at the raging moment of your being blown
to foam in a continuously falling
continuously once more rising gale.

Translation: John Irons