Thalassa
Bent back, aching feet,
shoulders overladen,
endless march behind me,
in weariness I have journeyed,
seeking rest.
In this up-country climb,
endless driving days,
I have journeyed onward,
seeking the end.
But now the final hill,
swarded green and sandy,
falls back beneath my feet;
it opens endlessly out
to a never-ending roar.
It is morning here;
the march is done;
the strong light leaps,
somersaulting the sea.
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UPDATE: With a sharp eye, Michael Gilleland recognizes the allusion.
