So grainy is the air of March,
I let it in with all its salt,
I let it go with all its starch
That clouds are made of, steering cold
Of elements: they meet, the sea, the sky;
Of salt and iodine’s deep breath
I take; on opening the inward peering eye
I see a clearing in the depth.
So far, vast spaces: blue in green,
They stretch beyond myopic sight;
A tiny patch, ultramarine,discerned
Among the clouds pouring light.
I’m circling round my stuffy room,
Atlantic breeze inhaled through Moscow’s March
And watch in disbelief Herculean Pillars loom,
Washed by the foam of tidal starch.