Suddenly the walker comes upon the ancient oak: a huge
rooted elk whose hardwoord antlers, wide
as this horizon, guard the stone-green walls of the sea.
A storm from the north. It is the time of rowanberries.
Awake in the night he hears—far above the horned tree—
the stars, stamping in their stalls.
The mast of the moon has rotted, its sail grey with mildew.
The seagull makes a drunken sweep of the sea, the charred
chunk of jetty, the heavy undergrowth in the dark.
On the threshold. Morning beats and beats on the granite
gates of the sea, and the sun sparkles at the world.
Half-smothered, the summer gods fumble in the haar.