Within this Sea

If I were a writer
I would travel the seas
For the lands are no longer so beautiful

I would see the sea blue
And know it as my ink
An open heart with a canvas on winged gull

Drifting amongst ship wrecks
Lying across forgiving waves
I would forget how the earth whimpered beneath me

I would be free to them
They open to me
Great stories of hopeless lovers and the sea

No more would the land
Be the holder of the pen
No grain to hold back the spilling of ink

Instead only silence
Echoing down and deep
And the steady pull of the tide to let it sink

If I were a writer
I would lay on the waves
Where no bush could prickle my side

A merlad would find me
Adrifting asleep
And together we’d wave a sandy goodbye

And as I lay back
I’d stare at the skies
And wonder at what happens to pages

But it would be sodden
And the words far and gone
As cool salty seas remember the past ages

No more are the trees
No more slippery sands
Only endless waves of blue sights

Asleep there this sir
A good writer I’d claim
For a pen sinks faster then one who writes.