By Richard Mather
My thoughts turn to the sea: there the convolutions of time deliquesce into
wavelike ease, closer to the rhythms of myself.
It is where the gannet, the curlew
are my fondest companions.
Look: a black sea bird
perhaps a Phalacrocorax carbo
in a seashell
of eyes
on a coast of floating souls.
Her dark echoes fade, fade
into the furious light.
O my Calypso, / I am stuck from view, /
concealed by a magic sea.
(The sea moves
in ancient gestures
calling on the land
to give up her fight
& join him in the ebb & flow
where time is slow
& death is not the end.)
The sea & the sea song of the sea-bells.
The sea & his salt-sour kisses. It is there
that I will come
to nothing & cease becoming;
turn to nothing, cease returning.
Until then: the sea.
Until then.
This is my song. There is no other.
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