That spider knows nothing
of the geometry, Euclid-
intricate, it gossamers.
Spectrum-dewdrops wink goodbye,
colour-blind.
The tide breathes its mantra.
It has never heard it.
Pebbles sleep in bliss
to their sculpture by my thumb-whorl,
Henry Moore, before a hand existed.
On into neolithic evening
I comb the sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem