They are the ripples of a vast tectonic storm.
Aeons have passed, but still its echoes
fold the green skin of this place.
How do they weather it? –
those seashell houses, caught among the seaweed trees
inside that straining net of stone-walled fields,
stretched by the flexing wave that soon
must surely burst it.
So it will, but not in any age that I can comprehend,
trapped in the merest flickering of time, too brief
to feel the solemn sweep of these great tides.
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