my bed is cold,
the night is long,
and on my tongue,
a winter song,
of you who are — so far —
so far and yet so near
maybe it’s the time of year
some how, some day
i will find my way
my words are bold,
perhaps I’m wrong,
to leave unsung,
a winter song,
of you who are — so far —
in stillness
in motion
in the silence of sand
in the roar of the sea
in the salt spray
in a kiss
or a tear
filling and emptying
the sea within
the unconsuming fire
we had no speech
and our oceans
played
beautiful music
sailor, your life
blew the wind
out of the sails
of a mind moving,
sketching the flow
of a spirit
beginning again, and again,
a thousand waves
pound in your heart,
seascapes of imagination,
a blue boat sailing
the last frontier
of consciousness.
Áine MacDermot
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