Maer Cliff

From here, the moon is rising,

Her slow and silvered burns

on Neptune’s fresh horizon

where softness, mellowed, yearns

for silent ships

to sail through lulling lips

and the morning

as the lunar day is dawning.

The fulmar scout is drifting

and steals us with his eye.

his wing-like soul is lifting

Atlantic breeze and sky.

He seeks the cruellest shore

where the fishing men ignore

the storm’s plunder

through a three-fold fit of thunder.

Here, the ocean’s cloak is lapping,

as tears below the air.

A gilded stone unwrapping

the greed-lost gift with care.

A myriad spray that showers

the fragile marine flowers

with a wave that lingers,

caressed with freshest fingers.

The sea’s child welcomes home

the returning tide;

and to him all is known

of the strength of winter’s guide.

And the autumn’s unlost harvest

is the dolphin’s proudest guest –

for they are free,

Atlantis maiden bride and the sea.

Copyright Andrew Williams 1990

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