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Love is when we circumnavigate the murmuring spheres.
This may be time, for your ship of fates
to spiral into greater depths. But be forewarned:
Her approach is often shy and non-communal,
as delicate as a papery seahorse.
She drifts with plankton awash through her fluttering gills,
of rushing pallid liquids. Her birth is a rock pool.
Her signature is in the sleeping sands of the sea caves,
in the calm of the pearl.
Her gaze, moonlit. So you will watch her secret silvers,
but only by that magnetic light.
She tasted the salt on the dry trade winds,
before she plunged into the oceans,
to shed her birthing skin amongst the whales,
who sang like giants to her mind,
and to moisten her scales into emeralds and goldens,
into the silence of currents, away from towns and wharves,
and the many disasters of your kind.
She perceives you drowning in your own delusions.
She has chosen sanctuaries.
What perfect being have you brought upon us?
One who will sing to your woes.
She predicted all seasons in temperatures,
as they lit their way along the bases of cliff corals.
She wept from rocks, above the shift of ancient plates,
to passing sailors.
She sang until they were blessed and haunted,
by the tales of an amphibian.
She longed and trembled like a lonely woman,
who looks towards the lighthouses.
She turns like a planet, blue and evolving.
For she is a changling, and she answers to no-one,
but the pull of the tides and the spheres.
