Let’s say our days were not immutable
but free for us to order as we choose.
Arrayed at noon, our possibilities
would hang like summer linens airing dry,
blown front- or sidewise in the saltish air,
simultaneous, available.
The prospect of our seaside lands would sprawl,
as: item, one fen; item, one ravine;
one snatch of orchard bruised with ripening fruit.
Still, at the horizon, what sudden wind
gathers now to dash this fantasy
in swells from distant waters drawing close:
a rack of breakers blanketed in smoke,
rolling, consequential, a travesty
of our push to stipulate or fend them off?