Golden Age
The openness of the strand, the present
of a crystal clear day.
You in the cold wind who can't
but walk fast and feel brisk
and gather all the possible warmth from the sun.
The waves being the here-and-now,
a proud swarm smashing up the past,
leaving a heedless quietness in their roar,
spreading the eagerness of the unknown on the shore.
No lost cradle of yours then, no marble halls
filled with echoes of feats to re-tell
in the long evenings of summer, lying down
in the vineyard in the after dinner hours.
Nothing but this beach, this stretch of emptiness
and the glare of sunlight on the water's edge.
And images in their pure strength
your scattered heart will keep looking back for,
this dog for example whose name is Mane
and whom you know so well,
he is running on the causeway straight to the end
hopping from stone to stone, in a frenzy.
His untrimmed shot of curly black fur
stands out on the blossoms of white foam
and makes the horizon clearer, the waves streaming
in a pattern like fire
when it crackles
and gathers memories
bringing them all back to their centre,
the present of your gaze.
