The day’s stupendous fact
Hushes the choristers;
Dream is no more than dry tears on my face
Or a great eye
Above the bloodied sea.
Owl and cuckoo call
Across the crowded stave:
Has the whale nothing to say to us?
I read volumes
Into that silent stare.
Stoic and suffering
Cannot last long. The pack
Will scent new prey under this morning sky
And one fine day
We will be our poem.
Till that perfecting hour
We oddly-crafted beasts
Play the whole drama – hunted, hunter, field,
And the high tops
Resound with roosting birds.