Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change…
Down there the fathom worker
Cleans a universe of sand,
Whitening bones, blurring wood
With weed and merhair strands
Our assiduous, unfailing tide
Washing the island away
And flooding Prospero’s cove.
Now all who were shore-born
Will leave in their boats. ‘Good sea’
Will be their greeting, temper
Of the moon their government.
Into the water they ease the old
To look for ancestry bleached
In grave-pools, anenome men.
From the string of abandoned boats
The young dive down to sacrifice
The swaying stubble of a forest
Will be their dark adventure:
White and green bodies met for
Sea marriage and sea justice,
And counsellors uttering bubbles.
Down in the slow-moving cold
Sway the grottoes of gods.
Above, the wave-pushed wreaths
And the dazzling stare of the sun
In his empty, shadowless temple.
