Issue 17, Autumn-Winter 1957
We walked on it, in the very flesh
No different only colder, as was
The sea itself. It was simple as that.
Only, the wind would not have it, would not
Have it: the whiteness at last
Bearing us up where we would go. Screamed
With lungs we would never have guessed at,
Shrieked round us, whipping up the cold crust,
Lashing the rigid swell into dust. It would
Find the waves for us, or freeze out
The mortal flaw in us; then we might stay.