His Word Hoard Unlids
Wave wet stone glistens.
One human alone listens.
And what brings him to the shore?
The sea, nothing more.
seagull and sailor tunes
strain to find keys.
Waves were before,
and will come after.
Pay no heed to beer brewed laughter.
Sober, silent, he wills to respond,
reach to what lies beyond.
The further he scans,
the wider his plans.
If, he thought, the universe
was unobserved by his kind,
it would all just be about numbers,
distance and weight, unsighted, cold, blind.
But what torture it was, at times,
to know what mortal means.
The fly hits the window, as it always will.
Birds sing on. Nothing will be still,
after he has gone. It will all continue.
He knew the puzzle, but not the clue.
Wanted his wit whittled down, refined,
to think with a simpler, cleaner mind,
be deaf to needless noise,
leave mirror hall reflections behind,
keep to root routine,
tend green shoots in his garden green,
savour each meal,
not take for granted
what was indisputably real,
his brain entertain
with his own visions and tales,
so in the silence, his word hoard unlids,
reveals his simple treasure,
sculptured in gold, silver, bronze, copper,
senses his spirit, yearning to sail,
swim, sing, in the ocean,
structure sound screens,
pictured prints of pipes,
cries from dolphins and whales.