by Gideon Burton
The islands multiply across the sea
Of stars, the refuges of time made safe
By mute philosophers who left their caves
Of thought and sailed and settled galaxies.
There are no vessels fashioned silver-white,
No rockets launched with crudest pulsing flame,
No ships to seek the depths that have no name,
No soaring plane to reach those distant heights--
For these, the archipelago of wonder,
One needs a field devoid of city light,
An hour gazing upward, till one's sight
Adjusts to cosmic storms of ancient thunder.
It's then we navigate with sextant sure
What others know as only haze and blur.
Photo: flickr - Chaval Brasil