- David H. Sutherland
There is thunder in your eyes, ground strokes and steppers That eddy-up under boorish clouds in a regatta of sparks, Torrents beneath thickened swells that strafe along walls Of incontinent depths. But in the deader calm between Parallels content on delivering salvation's edge, end of earth To another . . . go no further, leave these souls that anchor Their rituals to myth, raise their sails to a greater pilot and Return us face down and silent to these waters made flesh. Daily we drift nearer, wrung out of idle and dreaming Under a sun whose miniature of life stirs in the calm float. Our schedules and cares destined for a new world's promise now Forfeit to a sea's fin de siècle, hump oil and smug belongings While the hoof of these latitudes bares down to remind us That we drag its oar with conviction.