the sun sings its swan song at ev’en,
falls low like a fortress of fire,
destroyed by a kingdom believed in,
by an army whose feet never tire;
and the sea calls out loud like an egyptian,
her pyramids built out of sand,
her headdress the skies sweet inscription
the cloud’s dark dreamland.
and love is the song that the wave sings,
as the ghosts of the sea start to rest,
and they crash with the chill that the night brings
like a book where a flower was pressed,
and the waves bloom and die like spring blossom,
sing a song as eternal as cloud,
sing of life, sing of death at her *****,
the sea foam her shroud.
the meadows are filled with wild flowers,
the sky holds the warrior bird,
the rain with her solitary showers,
the moon’s with her pathway all curved,
delight of the sky and the highway,
as dissonant as a dark minor key,
oh, sea, of desire walks her causeway,
from you unto me.
the moon glitters like an old sovereign,
conjures magics as sweet as the sea,
a song ne’er remembered but forgotten,
in the vaults of our lost memories,
the stars shine like miniature lanterns,
more of lamplight than this pretty night,
shining clear in their old archaic patterns,
both cheerful and bright.
and the dark speaks out loud to her brother
sings of cloud bursts and moonlight and rain,
and the ghosts of her once ancient mother,
tells us life flows like blood in the vein,
the frosty dark sky with her night ****,
sings of freedom and knows not of slaves,
while the sea as it brims to the far shore,
all filmy, white waves.
oh, darkness, oh, sister, remember,
the fight for the shore is ne’er won,
from january through to december,
while the wilderness sings to the sun,
the dark has known only of winter,
her battlements rise to the sky,
wait forever for the first songs of summer,
that blossom then die.
for daylight arrives with its flurry,
of bird song and sunlight at dawn,
while the ceaseless, relentless waves scurry,
draw in close with their breath of the morn,
no death could e’er be imagined,
of a sea as eternal as air,
that the scampering wind swiftly maddened,
where the wild rafters swear.
the grasses blow flat on the wetlands,
where the puddles lie hoary and grey,
and the heron sweeps up to the headland
with its wings full of the glory of day,
the wildflowers bud in the meadows,
thick purples and bronzes and golds,
poppies red as the rust of a wild rose,
rufescent and bold.