Our there, out there, in the turning, turbulent waters,
each one a light, as if eternal,
hovering, moved, by currents unseen,
lungs, so full of gull laughter, plunge and spring,
between seas, sunbursts, above the foam – and gulls scream grieving,
grieving out of lost love, alone – thinking none can hear them, so unknown.
To silence, the tumult, of surfing crests, lift up their bemused hands,
sweeping away all before them – clearing out,
and what is love then, when so wash out, among the ocean waves?
So much, the torrent between seas and sky, in the wild,
British daylight, that some take, in delight, all islandling.
Here, the clouds part, where Sun in all his splendour erupts our lostness,
the shining path leads, gulls game and go gone, grieving on –
and to such, the silent words are mouthed,
to shells, crustaceans, in dolphin song, by grieving, mourning whales,
that sing; in waves; only yonder and swim on.
For there, out there, is where only gulls go grieving, grieving still,
where loose words are lost in motion and love is loosen to waters
that have taken them in, the well beloved, the long lost,
at long last, as if in dreaming, grief is cast off.