Mananan

Come, heart, and we'll walk from here to the bottom of the sea,

where there are spears in the sunlit rain shining like evening,

and a boat as long as twenty gulls, with painted eyes at the prow,

and a white horse with bells all along his faery mane

ready and rough in the moon,

singing like harps made from swan's breastbones, with maiden's fingers for the

tuning pegs and a shimmer of golden notes.

Come, heart, and for a laugh we'll sit in the topmost branches of his trees and

watch the superstitious old fishermen pass blind above, wary of your love, wax

plugs at the ready, secretly, in his top breast pocket, just in case.

So come, heart, but for all the tealeaves tipped on the waves I'd come,

but for every drop of death–salt in my lungs,

And I'd never look away–back, not even on the steed of the moon,

because we crumble and die when we dismount

and the strength of the dream dies with the light dusk.

I'd be too old besides. Rip Van Winkle–dust and bones by then.

Better to be on our happy isles with no shores,

better, blue in the gold washing, monochrome, sun.

Better–bye lullaby, sweet swim, but for every song of buttermilk

and warmth of these seas with no mercy and sharkmistresses, wait.

The kelp-soft current of the dream is my double-image,

flute song on the surface tension, lapping at my sides.

But for all the hillsides I would float into this dim expanse,

skimming across the devastation and eaten by it. The sea.

My wave is a book murmured in the rainy, sunny wind beneath the waves.

Come, heart, and whisper a sleep song from below.