In front of the Landscape (excerpt)

Plunging and labouring on in a tide of visions,
     Dolorous and dear,
Forward I pushed my way as amid waste waters
     Stretching around,
Through whose eddies there glimmered the customed landscape
     Yonder and near,

Blotted to feeble mist. And the coomb and the upland
     Foliage-crowned,
Ancient chalk-pit, milestone, rills in the grass-flat
     Stroked by the light,
Seemed but a ghost-like gauze, and no substantial
     Meadow or mound.

What were the infinite spectacles bulking foremost
     Under my sight,
Hindering me to discern my paced advancement
     Lengthening to miles;
What were the re-creations killing the daytime
     As by the night?

[Image: Chris Spracklen]