On The Death Of The Waters - Shearwater

From the wreck of the ark

to the fading day of our star,

the light races, the light drags,

the moon rises, the moon sags

over the rolling waves

and your hands on the balcony.

As a spine pricks the world

and the shudder, deep, is unheard,

but you feel it, oh my god.

As the spindle flies apart

turn your bow to the biggest wave,

but your angel’s on holiday

and that wave rises slowly

and breaks.