A murky morning became a bright afternoon spent with two of the birdlings.
In deep water fish make magic,
their silver eyes explore the ocean’s belly,
where fallen stars lie among crabs and spent arrows.
Voices draw staves in the sky with their songs
but not where fish dart;
nothing disturbs the secrets
that pave the halls of merfolk and the drowned.
There myths abound, darting silver
and swift as fish and speeding arrows.
You look for laughter and joy among the weeds
but find only coloured stones.
You listen for music in the booming of the waves,
hear only echoes, and the dancers are ghosts.
Raise your eyes, peer through the glassy green
to where the blue is singing, swallows dipping
where the silver scales of fish glint,
and sun streamers caught in the sardana of seaweed
sway between sand and sky—