The ground beneath our feet
is shifting, has been on the move

for ever. This fissured sea-cliff
travelled north from the equator;

its heights were once an ocean floor.
Ice carves on rock, forests harden

to diamond as the stars burn down:
there is nothing that is not on a journey,

no abode for those who long only
to stay. We could be at ease

with so little, if it were for always:
a moment, a loved place. How modest

this aim to go nowhere, this least
of wishes, not to change our state.

Sheenagh PUGH, "POETRY REVIEW", Volume 103:4, WINTER 2013