It speaks, round hour of early black;
miles of coruscating green,
and grows bold with passing of time
as though a counterbalance to our light—
hear its perpetual rhythm,
its roar, that seeks to enrich the mind’s coffers,
and tell me, how you feel.
The sea is both sombre season and fury;
is anchorage of being,
I observe them both, as saltish fragrance
fills the air and seeps into the bones—
its touch conveying
luminous truths, which are otherwise unknown.
I fence against the cold;
the marram grass feeds on doubt,
browning in return,
perhaps it’s an omen,
one which I am unable to comprehend,
a notion that lures into its den,
the sea is ballad,
is robustness, is rebuilding of land and faith,
without the sea,
one would be lost, would be indecisive, entirely.
And yesterday the sea was flat, was mute,
the soft white of herring gull was absent,
its hints that were to tug
on strings of psyche pronounced as wanton,
as wayward, as wilful and wild,
but no more—
the sea is within us, is language.
I am beginning to see, as it envelops
in all that is familiar and fierce;
and now, the pages are turning, for the better.
Picture courtesy: Pinterest
Grace is our lovely hostess at dVerse where she invites us to write Zen poetry.
Come join us! ❤
Posted for Meeting the Bar: Zen Poetry @dVerse Poets Pub