By | 1 July 2006

a man sat by a fire at the edge of the world
a fish on his spear, drying
the waves slid quietly onto the shore
the birds slid across the water,
swooping sighing, their voices longing
the man heard and he sang along
humming and sighing his own sweet song
and threading his net as the fish hung drying

when he left there would be no sign
no mark, no monument, no shrine
taking nothing away, he left nothing behind
just a charcoal patch and a tune he made when
he sat by the fire at the edge of the world
in quiet, but for the waves on the beach
he sang and sighed and the fish hung drying
and the birds, they swooped and sighed


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