Last night my soul walked barefooted
Amongst stars and left a sketch of wingspan
On my heart.
But today when I woke up it was shrouded
In thick morning mist.
So I had to take my life for a walk to the sea
To see it reflected there on bouncing
Silver currents heading towards land.
Clouds rise from the sea,
Something whispers in swirls of shining lies:
Moon after moon mirrored in shivers of blue.
A life has been poured tenderly into a watery mould:
The feather of a Sunbird making its way to the sky.
It is always that which leaves without a trace
That is remembered the longest.
I miss the ocean, the scent of it, the movements of the waves breathing upon the shore. I miss the blues and greens of the reflective surface mirroring the changing seasons from inky blue-black winter to clear sapphire to the softest cornflower summer.
I miss the rainy frothing autumn currents whipping up a storm. I miss the stillness of blue against blue with only white cottony dots, above and below, sailing on their way. There is nothing a beach or a black cliff can’t make better.
I miss the mooring poles, rusted orangey-red, standing erect on slippery slopes headed to sea. I miss the hexagon light huts with red hats casting longing glances at the starry horizon. I miss beach carnations, pretty Pinks, birthed savagely from stony cavities on barren cliffs.
I miss the sound of the ocean. Roaring forcefully, keening wistfully, or lulling soothingly, while polishing land and thoughts smooth and shiny. There is nothing better than being rocked to sleep by the ocean. Maybe it is the water in me calling to its twin, or the pre-historic aquatic creature longing for its origin. I am left to wonder.
But there is something about the ocean that moves me. Maybe it is time to move with it…to that island I have always been dreaming of…
You tether your soul
To the heaviest rock,
To the deepest isle
Where your thoughts reach
Into the bottomless pit
Where miles of darkness
Hide the light from your sight.
But if you let me,
I can show you how
To use your soul as an anchor,
Letting it sink into that
Beautiful light on the other surface
Of the ocean.
A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.