Poem for Manannán

Son of the Sea

The first wave reaches further than
You would think; your feet are wet.
The way is open.

The second whispers along the strand;
Your ears strain to follow voices.
You hear answers.

The third rolls muted thunder
As it falls, passing up the beach
Like chariot wheels.

Four, five, six- they draw you
In and out, away from land.
Salt spray whirls.

Seven, eight- they sing the world anew:
Scent of flowers, water clearing to show
Land under wave.

The ninth towers- colors blending,
Indescribable- and subsides, dawn-silent.
He is here.

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: Paying the Rents | The Words Swim, Waiting

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