Born To Walk On Waves

I was not born to the moors; my roots are planted by wild running seas, even so, a rolling heath is a green tide heaped into wind-sculptured waves, low breakers that may tug you deeper, or crash upon any too certain a mind. March is a good time to be a thin branch in a treeless landscape. You can catch hold of a wind-serpent in your upheld hands, a sea-creature born to be the innards of the sky. When a high rain surfs mountainous air, you can be pitched pell-mell onto thrashing shores shorn of any footholds. I was not begot to be native to these moors yet they deliver me into that wild ocean counterpoised between land and sky, and there, you may also wave-walk or be born again.