The sun spreads a blue sky
Over an anxious Sea
Whipped about by changing tides,
By storms and westerlies.
He shines so warmly and surely
The cold can’t find a spot to hide,
And runs back to Siberia
On the wings of snowy gales,
Back to darkness and silence.
“Could it be?” I ask the sun;
But he is busy clearing out old stories
Coaxing green buds, turning new leaves
Dreaming new dreams far and near.
“Could it be?” I ask the Med.
Still chilled and bruised, she hesitates.
She is hoarse from fighting;
For days she splashed, thrashed,
Spat, roared, and wrestled howling winds.
She twisted her waters, pushed boundaries,
Ravaged and messed her bed of sand,
Pebbles and grasses, as she looked for respite,
For strength renewed, like a fury possessed…
Now she rocks a buoy gently,
Runs curled fingers along green jetties,
Casts a surprised gaze at dislodged
Boulders, destroyed beach walks,
And gaping sink holes.
She stares at garbage and debris
Churned from the deep,
From hidden trenches and forgotten shipwrecks.
“I cannot find my space” she whispers,
Throwing a little lace on rotting sea grass.
Could it be, I ask again.
Green polished sea glass shimmers
In a retreating wave, then disappears
In tumbles of tidal sighs
Wish… wish… wish…
“Is it spring?” I ask the mountain clothed
in green oaks and white heather.
From blue bushes and sienna crags,
On the fragrance of wild rosemary,
She breathes her answer to me:
“It is warmth and light right now
For your soul. Nothing else is certain.”
Yes, yes, yes, chirps a blue tit.
On hot flagstones, the sleepy dog flicks his ears.
At the edge of land the Med hums her troubled quest
As a distant sun follows his path in a blue sky.