From the Wave

It mounts at sea, a concave wall

Down-ribbed with shine,

And pushes forward, building tall

Its steep incline.

Then from their hiding rise to sight

Black shapes on boards

Bearing before the fringe of white

It mottles towards.

Their pale feet curl, they poise their weight

With a learn’d skill.

It is the wave they imitate

Keeps them so still.

The marbling bodies have become

Half wave, half men,

Grafted it seems by feet of foam

Some seconds, then,

Late as they can, they slice the face

In timed procession:

Balance is triumph in this place,

Triumph possession.

The mindless heave of which they rode

A fluid shelf

Breaks as they leave it, falls and, slowed,

Loses itself.

Clear, the sheathed bodies slick as seals

Loosen and tingle;

And by the board the bare foot feels

The suck of shingle.

They paddle in the shallows still;

Two splash each other;

Then all swim out to wait until

The right waves gather.

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Source: Selected Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2009)

Thom Gunn: “From the Wave”