Wind on your path

     whips you clean; on your brow

     a row of sweat – though these were dear,

     now I name God my first, and jewels and deeds from

     where I cannot see, bind me to the tree of death – tint of mead

     and straw; at the quay, we wait for fish; on the rocks, we seek dark; few

     could view such a flat scene: not a live thing at all, but skinks;

     hard though we tried, still slipped, a word here, a word there;

     then the fall, the bleat, the fog and hill and dam and sloth –

     whip us to a halt; to go far and far is mad; to go back is mad;

     to tilt is to take a dive to the depths; come and see –

     what you can not see – the nude,

     hushed wind.