reverie by the sea

All I want is a little music, and she is the song the Sirens sing. At sea the sailors hear, and follow. This is the sea where we all flounder. Fear is the ocean, deep and dark. It is where the sailors weep, where the swoon and sweep of tides remember their disappointment. Back and forth, to and fro they go --- on and off the shore, never letting go, but fearing to take hold. Fear is the ocean, whose mind, honed by centuries of distrust, has learnt to rush away, and never take hold. It is old and not so bold. Safety is the shore where my love walks, blessing the sand with the steps of her soles, each print a kiss on the earth. Overhead, the gulls --- craven, quailing creatures --- fly in flocks of withered white, fearing to descend, to touch bare beaks to the anointed earth that bears her print. They carry my hopes; they dare not land. The quiet doom of the afternoon is a trap to the unfearing, the hopeful and the drunk. Lovers jump in gladly. Yet nothing happens. In one hand they hold a glass of gold champagne, rich with Parisian dreams; in their mouths gargle high poetic sentence, as if hope and strength of any sort ever won men love. No --- pretty faces and good hard luck bring love; poetry and courage do not. And nothing happens. Only the drunken lover dances, with glass in hand and hope in heart, merrily with himself. When will he tire? When he dies dancing. The beach burns in the sunlight and the shells are sick with longing. They have left the salt in the sea, left the dull, comforting cool, left their life in search --- of what? On the shore where my love sings, there is only sand. We are building castles on the sand, and the shells are sick with longing. And the sailors at sea, still seeking, see that even the sun dips in the west. The gulls, in flocks of weathered woe, ride the wind back home. But the sailor’s home is the ocean, dark and deep. This is where we all flounder. Unlike the sun we do not dip. We are sinking but not yet sunk. Day darkens. The eye of heaven opes; it is not the unforgiving eye of God that rises, but the purblind moon, white as the white of our eye, without a soul to see with. Around the moon the stars shine, shimmer and dance; they do not hear the moon’s low whimper or do not care to --- their music is their own, they cannot share. An owl cries, as if in fear, but the moon, hanging on heaven’s noose, cannot hear. Yet the moon is pale with glory, like the lips of saints who die believing. The stars in the distance glitter, like sequins on a dress worn by women so men remember only the dress; they falter now and then, twinkle, shiver and shine again, like the tide that hides and seeks. The moon, large and lifeless, never runs away. And the sailors still at sea sail neither nearer or further the beach. They hear the Sirens’ song; it is here that they belong. Days will drop and nights will fall, but the moon will always rise, to seek the shore where my love lies. Written November 13th, 2001 © on Nov 13 2001 08:50 AM PST   0 • 8 • 10