This wonderful montage was created for me by TUG,
who has followed my long, slow pilgrimage back
to the sea for several years now. Thank you, my friend.
She who speaks with ravens
and with doves,
who sings with wolves
ki-yi-ing in the rain,
her soul's refrain
is steady as raindrops on salal,
salt air and sunrise
over a silver sea,
to the rhythm of her heart,
her love as steadfast as the moon,
through all the heart-sore years
they've spent apart.
The ocean is her mistress,
delicate lick of foam
along a sandy shore,
miles of untouched beauty
stretching all before,
wild as the eagle,
soft as the dove, her love;
to return and leave no more.
I had written this poem before reading Brendan's challenge at Real Toads for Day 18: to write on a familiar theme, but turn it on its head and write from another perspective. So I tried it, with some difficulty, with this result:
The ghost of the Westerly
has always called her name
but Raven cautions:
do not play
the waiting game.
If you never can return
to the home for which you yearn,
the time that there is left
must move ahead.
Before you, not too far,
awaits your final resting bed.
If Raven quoth : "Nevermore!", in exile lost,
and I must pay in full the karmic cost,
my heart, as wild and constant, will remain,
though the Westerly will forever
call my name.
Like other refugees, I'll persevere,
although another pathway is unclear.
In exile, while I know where I belong,
I will continue counting out the hours,
remembering when all the wild was ours.
I'll sing my familiar until-next-time song,
my heartbeat and my love
stay just as strong.
[Had I known TUG was going to create the wonderful picture above, I would have worn less bulky clothing. I look like a small army, LOL. But he well knows my heart. He has caught my two loves: Pup and the beach, and all my longing for the wild.]