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 curled, 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; They all swim out to wait until The right waves gather.