I

One quarter of a century has elapsed

the diurnal movement of a life-cycle

rotating on its own axis

turned inwards and away from

hung by a nail upon the casement

Twice or thrice they crisscross

Across the level crossing

And the nettles cling

Stubbornly to their sides

Spreading their displeasure

Upon the broken ridges

Of crumbling soil;

You draw your breath

yearning

a sadness infinite

in its contemplation;

The rocks stretch out their arms
To homeless pebbles in the sand
As the white waters leap
Downhill in headlong pursuit
Of happy, lapping hours.

Once before I've heard this

anguished cry

A long-drawn note of many-lettered woe,

The great open beak straining

against the roar of raging surf;