A sultry hum from a mountain sea,
A bleached sun rocking in shore-bound currents.
On the marshy bank a black swan is looking,
Meditatively, at its own shivering reflection,
Ashen wings burning golden in the sea
Like a fallen angel encountering its honesty.
The evenings are soft in June.
Blue and pink mist rippling through
Sleepless lilac-scented nights.
The silvery shadows of seabirds
Gliding over a quiet carpet of sea.
Contours are blurred, but never dissolved.
Even at midnight you can hear
the eerie cry of terns hunting low in the sky.
Dreams can be waved freely from
Sail-less ship masts on evenings like this,
Even if you find yourself in the middle
Of a port-less sea.
There are still Wayside Flowers
And soft forests and tall windy grass.
They will not grieve your departure.
The silence of unpeopled places will not
Create mute deserts, but an oasis
Of life-loved wilderness capable of dressing
For any climate.
Let us not turn light-blind faces to the sun,
Leaving our darkness to outshine the blueness of the sky.
We will never fully decode the mastery of the trees,
Or the language of the sea.
Step down from your self-proclaimed throne, dear human,
For you are not its rightful owner.
When I stand by the sea
On a slanting black cliff,
I hear myself echoing the waves.
And in the pit of my humanity
A stream stirs to life,
Pulling towards the horizon.
I let that tender unity
Pour out of me,
until I am stretched
Far beyond the visible horizon.