The sea roars as it breathes
in and out, to rise, in the tides,
along the shores of all the seas
as one, moving where the moon guides.
Waters lapping the isles tiny beach,
gently touching her from beneath,
seeking the mountain out of reach,
among rocks like jagged teeth.
On the water little rafts float,
above the sacred, ancient beds.
Down, down they go with plunging stroke,
past the coral of blues and reds.
On the floor a searchers leg is hung.
Working they fail to set him free.
That night, a funeral song is sung
for the one who now breathes with the sea.
Copyright © Christopher Bunton