There is a marine silence in all that I do,
A waiting, a watching, a stillness of thought,
A presence, unmitigated by them or by you
By what the earth gave, or what time forgot.
It lies in my spirit, it rests in my chest
It flutters, unheard of, in thick vales of stars
It seems to be speaking in low caves of rest
And floats on the crest, like a balancing card.
Its cord is the swordfish, a fierce black and blue,
Its softness the velveteen wing of a bee,
Its entity lies in the wake of what's new
And sleeps in the buds of a shimmering tree.
I own it, I keep it, its presence is mine,
I clutch it with hands etched in heresy's mud,
A sinful equation in light of Divine,
Its snowdrop the sparkle in feral and flood.