Together,
hush standing,
seaward facing
with palms inward yet expectant,
they are the paths to the corrosion, cleaves
that each rhythm maker has come to heal
in an act of unity.
Dance the union
of
the winds.
The spray has
soft hooks:
the ocean - the muscles an element
of deep dark and cliffs mocking
the innocents light.
Nothing of rock determines ways, only
the roof of clouds
dreamt in the run can choke the reality
of their journey.
Dance the touch
of
water.
In the gloom the chaos
unravels, and the dark speaks:
Listen to the dark
the voices
of ancestors
whisper up
The weaves of crevice are mouths to pasts,
the arteries to our tomorrows.
Dance the union of ancestor to the unborn.
Is the horizon
waiting?
We will know
soon enough.
Dance
the distance
– close
the mystery.
Jim Mackintosh