by Arthur Seymour John Tessimond
Between the glass panes of the sea are pressed
Patterns of fronds, and the bronze tracks of fishes.
Foam-ropes lasso the seal-black shiny rocks,
Noosing, slipping and noosing again for ever.
Over-sea going, under returning, meet
And make a wheel, a shell, to hold the sun.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer