The water gathers, 
climbs into air
then hangs
as an arc for a moment
a slice
of dark water

like the arm of a bridge
over a chasm
over space
a glassy arm curves and holds

then tips and folds onto
itself, a crash of white froth
foams and charges down-
tumbling and churning its
glassy surface to a dark green

boiling, flinging white bubbling
arms up the beach like prancing
ponies in a race, they ride faster
gathering pace with the push,
advancing in a canter of riotous
water, an uneven line of
white heads springing side-by-

side jostling for position and
spraying spume like a snort
and a breathing, until
running and running they

are spent and fade slowly to
smooth movement, heads down
in defeat they swirl to a
surface of glass rolling sleekly

leaving behind white trails of
froth, dripping manes, bowed
heads thin and lined they roll
forward, skim the sand

and are sucked-back, subsumed
to be part of the dark heaving mass
that draws-in, ready to fling

the next arm of an
arcing wave sucked and gathering.
Nu Sculon Herigean
Return to Collections all
next poem