The Deepest

The deepest, we called it. Deep without end.
It made us weak, looking over the side
Of the boat as we approached the island.
Yet we could see the bottom, the lost troll
Lines, and wave-shadows flashing on the sand.
The infinite, to a child, is quite small.
The water turned red as we got closer
To land. Clay carved away by the blind craft
Of time and water, the skilled composers
Whose work rests on the infinite shoulders
Of the deep. But we contented ourselves
With ersatz quartz arrowheads and boulders
The size of our fists, and finer matter
To skip upon the face of the waters.