A bird, landing on the rubble
in a mode of dance, on its own
between high and low tide, hard by
remnants, collapsing now, tumbled,
of a quay from before ocean
led the land edge stepping backward,
appears to be all white, too far
for him to identify. He thinks,
briefly, of butterflies, the way
it fluttered after its feet had touched
on to a stone, a stark light hue
compared with darkness beneath that.
It is avian; and that's not all:
he hadn't known he knew these things
nor seen a structure in that heap
until his lithe concentration
of memory and eyes and thought
gave intimate pattern to shapes.
-----
Lawrence Upton
Visiting Fellow, Music Dept,
Goldsmiths, University of London
New Cross, London SE14 6NW
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