There was no singing slope but ran
Down through its song to bogs of black
And walls were waterfalls. A man
Crawled on a landscape that spread
round Its fading distances and where
Rock masked with water was the ground
He crept into his dryness, deep
To his centre’s self. Eyebrows of banks
Were juts of eaves for huddling sheep
And gulls passed like ideas through
The thickened air. And he, the man,
Shrunk to his centre’s dryness, knew
Only direction, till he found
The door, the room, the fire; and then
He filled his limits all around
And saw that that dry centre all
The time was slopes and bogs of black,
And sheep, and wall being waterfall;
And, with them in his bones like laws
Of his own self, he watched them and
Knew then what his direction was.
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