Seascape

   Stephen Spender       

In memoriam M.A.S

There are some days the happy ocean lies

Like an unfingered harp, below the land.

Afternoon guilds all the silent wires

Into a burning music for the eyes

On mirrors flashing between fine-strung fires.

The shore, heaped up with roses, horses, spires

Wanders on water tall above ribbed sand.

The motionlessness of the hot sky tires

And a sigh, like a woman's from inland,

Brushes the instrument with shadowy hand

Drawing across those wires some gull's sharp cry

Or bell, or shout, from distant, hedged-in, shires;

These, deep as anchors, the hushing wave buries.

Then from the shore, two zig-zag butterflies

Like errant dog-roses cross the bright strand

Spiralling over waves in dizzy gyres

Until they fall in wet reflected skies.

They drown. Fishermen understand

Such wings sunk in such ritual sacrifice.

Remembering legends of undersea, drowned cities.

What voyagers, oh what heroes, flamed like pyres

With helmets plumed have set forth from some island

And them the seas engulfed.  Their eyes

Distorted to the cruel waves' desires,

Glitter with coins through the tide scarcely scanned,

While, far above, that harp assumes their sighs.