Two Poems

Thom Gunn

A School of Resistance

The ice plant is not in flower:
it extends, a springy floor

over the rocks and the sand
for whoever rests here and

watches the sea's explosion
below this point: crash, crash. On

waves, farther out, the gulls roost.
Cold hard light, from this I must

always begin, to see clear
the look of mid-December.

Nothing unifies the place
but the chilly blown dryness.

In late spring the ice plant will
break into mild stars: meanwhile

for this weed, to endure is
to grow. Three flat surfaces

make each of the leaves seem a
stem, bulging and greenish-grey,

though they are like leaves pointed.
Snap them, they are moist inside.

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