Go through a bluish hazy forest, covered
by centenary mist, by curvy granite
stones burning red, to empty seacoast
with whalers warming up their muscles
gone numb for idle months of nothing,
preparing to give themselves to vast space
that’s even huger than a whale.
Peer into dense and solid waves’ crests
entirely bestrewed with crumbs of marble,
peer into whirling gulls and beards of people
in crowd on the shore. A strip of coast
is melting in the grip of flow. Fall’s coming;
and time is softly covering the pebbles
the ocean and the deserted house.