December on the bay (Britannia)

Golden-brown shore grasses
Are waving quickly to the setting sun.
Glittering shards of ice float on the waves,
Rhythmically breaking on shore;
Clish, clash, slosh;
A shore of rounded rocks;
And old, light-grey bark,
Deeply grooved
In a beautiful smoothness,
Worn so by the high-water waves of springtime,
Protecting the heart
Of the poplar trees.
The grass, the ice, the water and the bark,
Lit by the sun.
How they make my spirit run!

Cy, December, 1999