Remember words are not a minute's show, more like when the wind drops, the trees straighten up, the sky clears, and water carries home the late boats. Like when we friends wait to wave them in. Seagulls catch behind the early trawlers fish thrown back to sea, waiting all night on the quayside. We wait for morning and hear the recitation and response of incoming tide, small feelings it has invented for the great sea, that we have not the words for, words we are delighted with. Either way we lose things and fly back to the boats' compassion.
Every word is a new longing for harbours to come back to.
Like ancient ships, ancient stories. Let's gather what only we can use and leave to the flocks what flocks fight for. What is ours is only what we cannot do without, that greater gift to give people forever like a steady wind to sway them and that higher gift to move and meet, two only still longing after night. No place is safe as harbours. Tristia Ovid to Rome Sun-light evening, a chair out front overlooking Crosshaven harbour, clustered yachts and seagulls on a bookcase sailing Ovid's scarlet leather tears, final touches to a room.