Thursday, 29 June 2017

Bury me at high tide




It is the deathbed that we fear,
   not the final lullaby akin to sleep.
In cot sides do not nurse me dear,
   for I miss my seabed deep.

White-knuckled on the cowcatcher 
   of death's train runaway,
I roll off asking, what's her height? 
   What time full tide today?

I want to be buried at high water.
   On an evening above the bay.
When the long setting sun and daughter 
   moon, will find me happy in my way.

Then from the furthest ahoy!
   Or close where the waves stack high.
You will find me as happy as a sand boy,
   way out at the point, not up there in the sky.

So bide a while upon the tide,
    and paddle in memory.
I will meet you there my ocean bride,
   and I will kiss you as you kiss me.


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