To a Holothurian

To restless eyes of wandering men
You seem to be
Remote,
Enshrouded in a yielding crust
Of lonely mystery.

Part Chinese foodstuff, part a jest,
Part menace of the sea;
A mouth
In dappled sunlight on the sands,
Brave symbol of the free.

You blindly graze on the world-dust,
Part something clean;
Quiet heir
To hopes and fears of lumbering years,
Part rippling golden dream.

 
RAE, 1983