Sunrise,
sunset
upon
the wave
a
great expanse
of
flowing cave
sunset,
sunrise,
upon
the land,
a turning bank
of
burnished sand.
I
am a great white gratitude,
upon
the starry sea,
I
see the ocean seven-tombed,
I
see the world
the
warders see.
the
rolling rocks,
the
stubborn skies,
the
way the tender South wind lies,
the
fish beneath,
the
fish above,
the
white canescent moon
I
see the place,
the
warder knows,
and
knead the space
the
wind has hewn.
I
know the roaring patterns
of
wind to lifted wing
the
scale-enamoured oceans,
the
fluxing shoals that ring against
the
banked cliff face
a
climate high
gull-scored
with nesting song
around
its feet,
a
fishful foam
turning
around
to
rocky spume.
and
when the stars
are
gulfs of light
there
comes the moon and I,
we
glide the earth towards its girth
of
ocean,
folding
land to sky.
The
things I see when flying
are
maps of unspoke words
twixt
krill and squid and shark and
breaker
life
is a plexus shared by the speaker
death
is a point that falls to the deep
opening
out into limpets of light.
I
journeyed through the journey
a million miles by sea
a million miles again by home,
and
then I saw my broken bone.
I
couldn't rise
I
couldn't fall,
the
human things
had
thrown the pall.
lengths
which catch the salty fish
and
slam us in turn from our wings
reaching
to the secret deep,
and
thinking the enthundered meek
Shall
I grieve
for
broad white death,
slam
to the keening grave?
In
life and death
I
field the planks
of
earth and
greening
waves.
A
thousand, thousand slimy things
live
on and so do I
I
am the banks of rot
and
feather
under
the starry sky.
My
death was like a greeting
of
the ocean to the land.
My
downward slant,
was
ready
for
the Kraken-kindled sand.
We
are the journey bearers
we
are the living shore
and
when we cannot travel on,
when
wings have gone,
we
travel more.
Yet
I would will,
my
grey-white child,
to
fly upon
my
vital mile.
To keep my watch,
from
sea to land,
to
guard the salt-white glow.
Instead
he was too young
alone
and
pecked at gibes of
flummoxed
flow
There
is no sin in dying
nor
killing when done well,
but
there are things within the sea
that
rise and rise, and cannot swell.
That
rise and rise and cannot fall
and
rot with a bewildered pall.
The
endless sea
is
ribbed with bits
that
cannot be entombed and stilled
the
lightning map
is
torn and rent
by
that which has no way to end.
We
were a great white gratitude,
upon
the starry sea,
we
saw the ocean seven-tombed,
we
saw the world
the
warders see.
The
rolling rocks,
the
stubborn skies,
the
way the tender South wind lies,
the
fish beneath,
the
fish above,
the
white canescent moon.
We
saw the place,
the
warder knows,
kneaded the space
the
wind had hewn.
Yet
oceanic maps of life
are
darker than they were
blinded
by the blinding patch
from
an encumbered shore.
And
I would wish my children life
and
not the living death they bore.
For
there aren't
albatross
enough
to
guide the years in.
There
are not living birds enough
to
hear the weeded wonder sing.
Each
wind-scaped bird
is
like a grip
which
holds a scope of land to sea
and
if the birds
are
killed by ghosts
each
folded place,
will
then not be.
The
map is growing darker now,
this
is a thing I've said,
and
I would wish my children life
yet
know that they are dead.
And
we who guard the tidal night
we
hear the rising thunder
and
still we watch and still we sing
with
wings of flummoxed wonder.
And
I might wish for more than flight
to
see the deep come to the height
to
turn against the living ghosts
to
rout them from their watching posts
Yet
I am steeped to wind and sea
I
am the journey of the free,
I
watch and then I living rise,
I
rise and then I fall
for
watching, flying, dancing, dying,
I
can do no wonder more.
