Midwinter Birthday   From where we stand those Hokusai claws assault the headlands. Each time in the collapse there is mess—the smashed white, the shattering of glass. Spray, spume, foam. A pause, and then again. And this, inexhaustible.   As too, here, just beyond our feet, sidling as if coming to be fed, wine-clear, this water, ripples in its lithe, almost reptilian skin, and fattening, gathers depth before breaking, a slow-falling over in sods, folding smooth-faced, as by a plough—   and slides back into itself beneath a night-sky brilliance of sequin-glitter. Caul-laced and delicate, laundry-clean, with little rucks like…