by Gideon Burton
It rules us all: the ocean. Thick with hair,
with oily condensations of the moon,
with tides that rise and ebb and rise as soon
again as soon as molten mortars can repair,
oblivions of viscous tissue, red
in tooth and time and claw. And yet the breath
of certain mornings (cool against the crest
of sharper whispers) bind the brackish dread,
undrown the buried skies, unfold in piece
by sudden piece the wrinkle-pattern rain,
enough to stitch a garment over pain,
to summon sailing ships to thread the breeze.
As heavy as the settled mountains’ sleep,
it governs, widens, cold and dark and deep.
Photo: flickr - Mohan S