since
beginnings of the earth: land and sea;
since sun and
moon began, and first-born tree
was rooted in
the soil of rich brown lore.
There was no
stolid unforgiveness here,
there’s no
hand of navy retribution
where we must
force bloody revolution
of scarlet
martyred front, the woman’s tier.
The ocean was
your first love, when men left
for the sea:
sailors with no worldly cares
except vast
liquid horizon, dulcet
moon dipping
the waters, and sunlight deft
brimming over
the wooden orange barrel;
and the mast
with its tall stalwart concept.
If the sea
would cry out in white anguish,
the waves
would crash in tide upon the rock,
cragging
paths of the shore without prism smocked
solace, the
water would be a British
maid, upon a
beauteous isle off the coast,
lapping the
sand of minute grey and brown,
standing
there in her apron, her mouth frowned;
she looked
out to sea, awaiting the lost
ship, willing
it to return from the storm.
It would be a
mother wound, the poison
of a war that
was their debt, and the loss
of so many
lives. She was fragile form—
waiting there
and never moved, her crimson
mouth still
singing his song, stone-cold with moss.
The lithe
seabirds fly and she stands there still,
her hands
with long fingers to play the harp,
the fishermen
with nets would harvest carp,
while she
would strum trees on the cliffs with ill
winds that
would whip and blow the rocky shore,
the women’s
skirts would dance in coloured dress
refining
tastes of men put to the test—
to love women
like the sea, banish whores
from London
streets, and taking daughters by
the hand to
revel in the marriage
of sea and
land. These are of old, ancient
as sailor’s
navigation had star-ties.
The bride and
groom got into their carriage,
circling
planets, ivory innocent.
The dark
waves and depths were darker than land,
the moon was
elegantly fair of face,
the stars
stretched out their whitened Kenmare lace,
the green of
Ireland waved its gloved hand.
The daffodil
of Wales bowed iron head,
and England
stood, a cathedral of stone,
with panes of
stained glass through which the light shone
with
anointing, this wine-like honeyed mead—
and touch of
grace with healing in its wings.
The Great
Black-backed Gulls flew up, and soared high
above the
brine, the cool dank filmy air—
they lived
scavenging, but their wise call rings
with a life
of salt unmarked by the dye
of
indigo-scarred sea, old and austere.
What was this tree of time that grew on land—
each
bark-wrought branch a son with brave courage—
to seek the
light, and try to lessen scourge,
integrity to
their last breath; and hands
that
fashioned carpentry with saws and nail.
The art of
wood was resurrected mast,
and homes of
quality were handsome cast,
with
furniture whose legend does not fail.
Their wives
were cared for when they stayed on land,
but men had
dreams that made their sea-eyes wild,
they dreamt
of naval ports, of setting sail—
the Riviera
beckoned the Captain:
foreign
harbours, oriental silk mild,
sailing the
coast when the wind would not fail.
Africa called
to men in their sleep, dreams
made them
listless and seeking adventure,
they left for
their oceanic nurture,
of the power
that moves men from the cream
of life, a
wooden house with garden flow’rs—
for the life
of violence and war’s red fruit,
for the hard
clasp of the guns, swords, and brutes.
Their ships
would sail from emerald towers:
the waves oft
the shore, the depths, the silver
fish, the
harvest of the sea—liniment,
a
sun-streaked weary sky would set each night,
oils of
eucalyptus and lavender
were balm of
kindness, green eyes, imminent
to regain
their blue-streaked morning-tide light.
The sea has
aged with the drawing of time;
it grows
restless now and creation broods
far under the
water, whales die in moods,
and struggle
to reach the surface of crimes
against them
and their habitat. Their breath
cries out
into the open—we cry save
the whales,
while English boats upon the wave
of the modern
world laugh. The kelp tide’s death
crackles with
green iridescence and salt,
once-food
does not nourish us anymore,
we hunger for
the minerals of sea—
but she is
lost, dark-winged like the night’s cult
as our dry
bones hit the ocean’s sand floor—
we scorn
their value to humanity.
