Where are our kin?
What
deep is that?
Who
is that boy at the oar?
Where are the great old ones?
Who dreamed of this?
Where are the great old ones?
Who dreamed of this?
Where
can she be found?
Whose
voice called out?
What
journey was undertaken?
We had launched ourselves onto the shearwater’s road
Of
winds’ lives, the kittiwakes’ way
The
towering fortress of the ever shouting birds
We
mariners had left behind us,
Our
hopes & prayers knotted in cords & stays
Chords
of songs & masts of sails
As
delicate as the gull’s white wing feathers,
Singing
as we pulled on oars
With
the sun of glory scooting out over our heads
&
the old dark, loathings of the storm left far behind us.
Left
to rage; felt sensed but not seen
We
could not look back, nor return to Laurentia
So
the boat of the brothers & sisters of the child-king
Fulfilled
the prophecy of banded Pre-Cambrianity
Sweet
granite song-lines of inspiration
Can
now call to darker birds, where secret waters
Rise
to the surface & we stand upon the curving shore
Almost
disbelieving that this tiny island-boat
Could
have crossed the
millions of years of storm waves.
A
reunion of ancient lands.
Another
bird on the wing.
A
scented strand.
A
woman waiting.
A
timeless tomb.
An
awakening hero.
Starlight
upon the wave of the deep.
That
is our kin.