The survivors – soon to be –
Their outlines, chalked in ashen black…

And underneath
the words
the primitive arcs
the dashes
somehow bleeding in our minds

(tethers to Time
anchors destined to lie limp
behind the onward-pressing Ocean)

on the long wall we made
from the Earth we barely knew was us
the dry red wall that we became

(as if we deserved
that barren Ocean floor
whose tug we felt in every mis-spent breath
in every brick
and dash
and arc)

a proud and frightened shield
from the deep, wandering life
of Pilgrimage

… and I can barely breathe
and soon will stop.

“Flea”

“Cockroach”

“Caterpillar”

“Spider”

“Snake”

“Wolf cub”

And they’ve known nothing of our drawings.
And we’ve known nothing of our own image
breathing gently amongst their hearts.

That tiny, too-deep image
Who will set alight a rhythmic flame
of Gratitude.
The Ocean’s joy.
The Ocean’s onward call.