Underfoot are remnants of an old way.
A time crossed off and departed.
We’re heading somewhere new now,
writing ourselves into the history books.
And so, we find ourselves here,
in the midst of a season in its prime,
where blooming carnations seize rare moments of light,
and our hair turns a lighter shade of brown.
Where the redshank laps the waters
from around the boats into its beak,
as the air grows ever thinner.
Yet somehow, I grow weary of that skip in my step.
And I dream at night of a downpour so heavy
it could wash away sins.
It stirs wild and unknown in my heart.
I think these are the things that killed
Napoleon, Van Gogh, Chekhov, Reed,
and anybody else who has ever lived and breathed,
for that matter.
So, I take my steps carefully
on this long walk to nowhere,
past those glistening ripples on the surface,
those gulls tearing into mussels,
and those whiffs of seaweed souring the air.
These harbours are more alive than ever!
And in the distance, the boats are coming in.
I can see them now.
I see the boats, and they are coming in.