The Hove

Such as there was in the littleness of that dawn

could not be this. Not, certainly, the hove

of an invasion fleet from Angleterre,

flotilla wrought of shipwright, chandler, armorer

as if Ice Age breeding stocks were on the move.

Gulls glean the wakes. Something of a factory — 

diesel and air and the Jersey spirit spark — 

of the hydrocarbon Gloriana makes

ungainly way in the valleys of the swells.

The shore emerges quaquaversally.

A Very pistol throats the air. Battlewagons

wheel for the presentation of the agon.

Shades of sherry fill the clouds with light.

Mike boats enter surf’s unscrolling rolls.

Empty jaws agape, the gods take note.

Amphibious landings to prevail require

the triumph of the small; circle in circle

perfected on parade grounds of the soul.

Committing an empire to the fire

calls for just-in-time ferocity.

They eat the savage honey. The boys pound sand.

Green eyes gammoning they all pound sand

until for the battle there was nothing left that day

but what the carrion patrols collect

for Paternosterers to sacristy.

So many shouldering forward, enjambed

now cross the Styx with the ease of smoke

passing through a window screen    ...    depart

the shapes of things continuing for shapes

supercooled to the stillness of mortmain.

The business of the flag is never done.

It fills in the wind and fails, but never the same

akimbo twice. Each snap a fresh report

from acres of tended lawn

rankled by crosses perfectly plumb.