To Be An Islander
The sea breathing,
Is so intrinsically an islanders own,
That the rhythm of their beating hearts,
Waking or sleeping,
Matches the oscillation of waves
Breaking upon their shores, day and night.
There is never silence.
Not in any season.
Not in the stillest of nights.
Nor in the dead hours before dawn
When death holds many a last breath.
There is always the constancy of the sea’s sonorous respiration
Enfolding them, lulling them like the sirens of myth and legend.
Even as she swells and writhes tempestuous, in elemental battle,
When she lashes the earth in fury,
When nightmares stride callous into their dreams.
The heaving of her breath swaddles them.
It cannot be otherwise.
Their blood holds the ocean’s hues
The tides rise and fall, ruching their skin
Like ripples on fabric.
Islanders breathe sea breath
Their hearts beat to the rhythm of waves,
And the moon.
