It is ivory, or marble —
Some blinding material else,
Some godbone out of the
Shadow of a singularity —
It is fulminant, impossible,
Cleaving the water without
Seeming to touch it,
Its reflection bowed
And no less bright.
In the stern a creamy shape
Lies, indistinct. Feathers?
We cannot say. About it,
Marigold lights play,
As if radiating from
The very water. In the
Surface, the colours of
The forest tremble, fragile
And cool. Frond greens,
Cloudlike blues, dying
Amber, here and there
Orbs of white, as though
Some beneficent spirit
Had hung gig-lamps in the
Trees and sown them with
Fire. Below these veils of
Colour, yet more luminous
Shapes may float, trailing
Captured stars in their gills.
