BENEATH TROPIC SEAS 



with thousands of dull, mouldy-brown polyps, 

 aligned along the stem. At a touch from my hand 

 all vanished and revealed the clear, bright purple 

 of the bark and trunk. Sea-fans waved less 

 pliantly, like starched portieres, or like English 

 fruit-trees broken away from their flat garden 

 walls. Many of these showed parasitic growths 

 among their branches, mistletoe-like, sponges and 

 shells and tall stately hydroids. 



Here and there on the brain coral mounds 

 sprouted little, double-spiralled worm pagodas, 

 and over the tan surface slipped small, blue-lined 

 gobies. Unnamed monsters slid over the horizon, 

 more bizarre than any dragon of old on ancient 

 hillside of fable. 



At my very elbow a pagoda worm expanded. 

 On the rear side of the summit of the creature was 

 an absurd bit of flat mother-of-pearl shell with 

 several strands of sea-weed growing from it — a 

 defect, a disease perhaps, or a bit of broken shell 

 from some snail entangled in the tissues of the 

 worm. Aside from this the gorgeous gills were 

 perfect and symmetrical. The piece of extraneous 

 matter annoyed me; it was as meaningless as the 

 ruff of a sleeping golden pheasant, or an un- 

 developed photographic plate of the Taj Mahal. 



In this land miracles can be worked with a 

 shadow, and my hand passing between the sun 

 and the worm sent the whole affair hurtling under- 

 coral. The defect now became perfection. 

 Nothing was visible to the onlooking eye but a 



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