It mounts at sea, a concave wall

       Down-ribbed with shine,

And pushes forward, building tall

       Its steep incline.

Then from their hiding rise to sight

       Black shapes on boards

Bearing before the fringe of white

       It mottles towards.

Their pale feet curl, they poise their weight

       With a learn’d skill.

It is the wave they imitate

       Keeps them so still.

The marbling bodies have become

       Half wave, half men,

Grafted it seems by feet of foam

       Some seconds, then,

Late as they can, they slice the face

       In timed procession:

Balance is triumph in this place,

       Triumph possession.

The mindless heave of which they rode

       A fluid shelf

Breaks as they leave it, falls and, slowed,

       Loses itself.

Clear, the sheathed bodies slick as seals

       Loosen and tingle;

And by the board the bare foot feels

       The suck of shingle.

They paddle in the shallows still;

       Two splash each other;

Then all swim out to wait until

       The right waves gather.