The sand of the shore is smooth and packed and heavy To meet the huge momentum of the rolling of the sea. The dociles do not change, the inward sleeps in the sunshine, Dreaming of the past, and what never was to be. But when from the clouds, invisible as a god, Comes down the breeze, the feather of the weightless empty air, Then all the dull swells arise to the combat And every shape of spray erupts on the front of war. Then everything is change, in just the sudden way The insubstantial glance that a lover throws, in play, Makes wild, in an instant, the calm that lay before.
Paul Gallagher is a poet, translator and also an economics journalist. He lives in Virginia with his wife.