Maer Cliff
From here, the moon is rising,
Her slow and silvered burns
on
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