There are many seas, organ-pipe rocks.

Sometimes we drift for months, and wake

     to the dog-watch of night,

on our lips the bitter taste of land.
Our anchored ship

          perched on the ocean’s skin,

we hear the hull’s creak, keening

of the lines, fancy we hear voices

                    through the thunder of waves

knowing they’re the cries of sea-birds,

the boom and boom of breakers upon rock.         
Cloudlands rise from the mist

saw-toothed peaks emptied into the sky

          vanishing as we approach

the sun’s glare, a shifting sea

with nothing at its centre, the motion

                         of a rocking island.