From upland bourne I gaze
Down on the patchwork fields and scattered farms
To where, muffled in summer haze,
The far port sleeps.
There, gathered in its arms
Like sheep within a fold,
Their tiny hulls in white and gold,
Lie little boats. Beyond them sweeps
The diamond-studded sea in a vast arc
To where the horizon with faintest edge
Meets the pellucid sky.
So might a god look, with an eye
Cold and dispassionate, and mark
The toil of men a pledge
Not worth redeeming in its trivial scope,
Its petty squabbles, its self-vaunting hope.
Yet when the night is dark and lamps are lit
The earth’s frail stars are with the heavens lit.
Mona’s Herald 27.11.62