When you have nothing more to say, just drive  
For a day all around the peninsula. 
The sky is tall as over a runway, 
The land without marks, so you will not arrive 
 
But pass through, though always skirting landfall.  
At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill, 
The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable  
And you’re in the dark again. Now recall
 
The glazed foreshore and silhouetted log, 
That rock where breakers shredded into rags, 
The leggy birds stilted on their own legs, 
Islands riding themselves out into the fog.
 
And drive back home, still with nothing to say  
Except that now you will uncode all landscapes  
By this: things founded clean on their own shapes,  
Water and ground in their extremity.