A Thought for the Moment Gone

Oar-bark crutched—out— into mouths of water, In swallow-plough sweep and plough and sweep and Gasp—out—into salted air. To be penned so to churn and froth and drift. To be weighted amongst willow deck, oak and lead calmness. Streaks, tiger-print, from the keyhole of the sun The batter of the humming rays, pooled out into Bunches of freckles, the swelling backs of brown, Drained into runnings to be sunk into sheets. Cloth from cloud; Is spread in oils, Whims tremble with string, and Bathe naked in whirlpools, Placid wilt birthed; they trespass and dash into rosemary shade; river-bud green. Mossed then carved with vine, fertile brags, As heaven and havens may only be Touched and tampered by lead. Coursed from windows, Tight, misty, locked, drawn blind By cloth That could not breathe without cloud, That may mourn a garden Sanctuary 'til Morning's yawning sound whilstvapour founds and births—soft light! Amongst cascading bounds, Let the mute laugh into the tranquil, Let the sightless be raised, Let time wash night from the bell-cast—clear, and oar bark crutches sweep and plough and sweep another day.