Marina

Marina.

Most of the time we are mountains, a cocooned place However still confined we flicker, encouraged by paper Props and unreal colors, Some plant risen from dust.
Eyelids pried open, shuttered, springing between, Adrift, though some admit to dream all day long.

This glittering vision we scatter amongst trees, infinite in their joys; The expressions melting in shadows from the sky, We greet or converse.
The question comes: Gently grappling, wondering, surveying the height,
Guide not above, true silence in flight or stead.

For look, nature has crumbled too, And burns slow to flame, Half squandered as we meditated, Our step round the edges, Leaves torn and strewn like shrouds of longing. Yet whence they rustle, we proceed,
To each fold of fraying warmth,
Dangerous as any fire, To hum from the depths of our tone,
And listen behind clear water for the fount, Plain as Heaven to beckon.

• TS Eliot