The face of the wave, rising, becomes a wall and then the sky.

Reach out, asking
     where are these enormous bees from, in the heather
     strumming forgotten things; this late-winter eternity of dove-blue rooms.

The child brings these secrets home. Beyond this door the house is falling, the white pulse of the
ghost’s hand draws him. (though not the dead:
        the future echo of a life difficult as flowers has its own power.

A year rises from empty May; fills with gold. Stars pool on its broken floor.
She takes his hand: I will stay the harvest, but will leave you nothing

 & even this is unclear.

Here the wave is falling. the terrible absence
(the dark under the wing,
water, these
lonely breakfasts in sunlit rooms)
  gets through: the wire in the rose, if less
perhaps than error, lies more deep and careless than loss and disrepair.

   and then leave:
   as you will