All night I’ve heard
in complex dreams and wakeful moments,
the sea’s undifferentiated roar:
a millrace powered by
the clouded face of the autumn moon,
the wind rising to wail in warning,
tossing the fingers of the olive trees
till they lose hold of fruit
that should be gathered in by human hands,
and tearing at the sandy surfaces of cliffs and crags,
scouring the land, without love.
But in the morning,
under the sun’s pale disc,
the sea falls back.
Assault’s diverted from the patient rocks,
the white-tipped waves ride off,
and the gale has passed.
Another reflective stunner..... t x
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can identify with this one, Jan. Except that it's not the sea which is in turmoil in my case but the tarpaulin on the back deck of my boat, flapping and raging like a canvas ghost, arms punching the air in every direction, keeping me awake but at the same time leaving me feeling safe and secure in my tiny craft. There's something about being snug while the wind is blowing....... I like this poem very much. Love, Fran xx