You visit, and the death-hold loosens; you
brush past, and somewhere an old lark croaks
as if time was a luxury necessitated by the
passage of undulations and gradations of
sea-moments. It is not thus forever, or is it?
But that overshoots the issue, the issue being
the lark, its age and its croaking, earlier than
what was pre-ordained by the nuggets of sea-time.