The great, green Giant sleeps all through the day;
beer-bellied, toes outstretched, dipping into the sea.
He lazes beneath the springtime sun, while we sit idly
anticipating possibilities and to-bes.
This dead castle bursts with life,
seagulls, and sandwiches,
and cameras capturing the view
onto something they can hold;
The Giant disappears at night;
merging with the mountains.
Fading into the dark, as the waning moon
creeps up behind and over and above;
dripping reflections to feel a connection
with the earth again.
Lovers wander now, wandering through the flirting streets
which tease with uncertainty, and curtain the
awe-striking depth of the darkness that dumbs their speech
as they 'turn at this corner and just along the promenade..'.
Pushed back by a blast of wind;
numbing hands cold.
Forcing them away from
prolonging a gaze on the Sea's cruel honesty;
knowing they would be driven mad
by endless questions of eternity.
Questions they attempted to drown out with music and dancing
and Tequila shots and the kissing and the music and the dancing...
But now in the air, by this high-tide, they are
'Have you ever seen the petrified forest?'
Will they tell stories of us too?
Life is so short and now is certain, well...
as certain as certain could be known for certain so..'
So, after meditating on the existence of existence,
they find refuge in the optimistic light of the stars.
Warmth for the spirit from the deep, dark, cold depth of the darkness;
'Because the night is so very young.
Look, there are still stars in the sky...'
Venus is inconsistent; an evening and a morning star.
And, oh, is that Orion's belt?
Lying on the floor, in the morning, after a night of philosophy.
Written early 2015. (Was reading a lot of T. S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas at the time... and reading it back I can really hear it).