The Shell The Sea Fills

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

I Sit In The Top Of The Wood, My Eyes Closed. Inaction, No Falsifying Dream Between My Hooked Head And Hooked Feet: Or In Sleep Rehearse Perfect Kills And Eat.

Stilled Legendary Depth: It Was As Deep As England. It Held Pike Too Immense To Stir, So Immense And Old That Past Nightfall I Dared Not Cast.

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.