Marathon

Across the green which lifts and falls
like ocean, like St Mark's mosaic floor
whose gilded earth the sea buckles and swells,
turning on Venice that same supple force
she used to trouble other shores,
her lion-headed ships her battering ram;

across the green, how far the runner sails,
spread out against the wind, his legs
impelling earth until the earth recoils;
or tacks without an effort through her hills
as easily a sailor on his girl
sets out at night to bring his vessel home,
slapped by the waves that rise and fall for him,
the lunar tide that sends him into port.

Perhaps he finds a current, and gets on,
arriving at Bermuda in an hour;
perhaps a northerly and toothsome wind
diverts his path, drives his tormented blood
to circle like a whirlpool in his heart;
he never has the leisure to prefer.

The voyage that he runs will never end
as long as time suspends him in the green:
his limbs fail, and are mended one by one;
his heart breaks, and is filled again; his bones
throw tendons, which like vines rewind
about their bole; his nerves fire off and on.

He always runs, through tearful hurricane
or Indian calm; his steps are westerly;
the sea swells like an untimed heart, and he
rocks like a little ocean in the sun.