Fiascherino
Over an ash-fawn beach fronting a sea which keeps
Rolling and unrolling, lifting
The green fringes from submerged rocks
On its way in, and on its way out
Dropping them again, the light
Squanders itself, a saffron morning
Advances among foam and stones, sticks
Clotted with black naphtha
And frayed to the newly carved
Fresh white of chicken flesh.
One leans from the cliff-top. Height
Distances like an inverted glass; the shore
Is diminished but concentrated, jewelled
With the clarity of warm colours
That, seen more nearly, would dissipate
Into masses. This map-like interplay
Of sea-light against shadow
And the mottled close-up of wet rocks
Drying themselves in the hot air
Are lost to us. Content with our portion,
Where, we ask ourselves, is the end of all this
Variety that follows us? Glare
Pierces muslin; its broken rays
Hovering in trembling filaments
Glance on the ceiling with no more substance
Than a bee's wing. Thickening, these
Hang down over the pink walls
In green bars, and flickering between them,
A moving fan of two colours,
The sea unrolls and rolls itself into the low room.
