From the Sea Fields

At Nanjizal, by a brutal sea
I went to feel the spray and lion's heave
heaving with a lion's tongue and sound of lions:

watching from the heights as the sea came
onto the hollows of the bouldered shore,
dark-throated, with the crested claws of the sun.

All roads lead here in this land.
All hills shows the shock of blue,
the wild packs running beyond the granite palisades

and the old fields watching.
In pools at low tide the two are met
in tangle of reflected veins,

the one in the other.
These struts and spars of rusting kills
Are open hands, as delicate as flowers.
...