Now that we sail, after all, through the moons
of our sunsets, leave the tight heat of bright
midday light for a flare of sky, an airy
canvas opens up for flight path and sky hunter.
The sky seascapes and beckons, my flush of amber
leaf tips to soft brush calligraphy when inks would be so bold,
of our sunsets, leave the tight heat of bright
midday light for a flare of sky, an airy
canvas opens up for flight path and sky hunter.
The sky seascapes and beckons, my flush of amber
leaf tips to soft brush calligraphy when inks would be so bold,
and to a weakening watercolour, the skyline leaning
into an ocean of what is missing and what is missed.
There is always loss. The wake’s brine-washed
stumbling stones are gifts to silvery fish which slip
into an ocean of what is missing and what is missed.
There is always loss. The wake’s brine-washed
stumbling stones are gifts to silvery fish which slip
the nets and basket. My fault lines,
but their dynamite drag breakers.
Who is sorry for it? We grieve, green to golden
woven nets and nests that would have held all to evaporate; and yet it is still a rib,
boat, river, bough from which springs now or autumn.
Stone sap songs in rivers of muck; flotsam in the face
of maple tap - when that summer, spun gold leaf and thread.
of maple tap - when that summer, spun gold leaf and thread.
Watercress beds don't insist on the sparkle of a blushed patina
before daybreak. And what else?
But for where the blushes fell. Tumbling sunset curls
made songbirds cage-home; how can the softening heart
carve fossil lyric on bone? Yet shining in the melt
carve fossil lyric on bone? Yet shining in the melt
are the tree songs of the impossible mountains we climbed that summer.
Bare beach feet fearing breaking homes, on tiptoes,
the marrow that flowers, fed us.
The kiss of the horizon is sweeter now even so, even if ripped
on the reef curl riffs of all the songs that came before this.
on the reef curl riffs of all the songs that came before this.