At the end of a sand-heaped lane
A scene from Rembrandt –
Worried lights clustered against hugeness;
Lowlit men appraise an upraised ocean
Boiling where a beach should be.
Quiet speaking on a universal plain
As wind blows the buckthorn flat and
The blackest of black cattle stand against stars
Behind the dunes behind the sea-wall now attacked;
They move and moan like their owners.
“In twenty minutes we’ll know” –
“Twenty minutes”; eyes down and overlapping out,
Await the flow – there is nowhere else to go.