The sea always arriving,
      hissing in pebbles, is breaking
      its edge where the landsman
      squats on his rock. The dark
      of the earth is familiar to him,
      close mystery of his source
      and end, always flowering
      in the light and always
      fading. But the dark of the sea
      is perfect and strange,
      the absence of any place,
      immensity on the loose.
      Still, he sees it is another
      keeper of the land, caretaker,
      shaking the earth, breaking it,
      clicking the pieces, but somewhere
      holding deep fields yet to rise,
      shedding its richness on them
      silently as snow, keeper and maker
      of places wholly dark. And in him
      something dark applauds.