We walked out at spring tide, the sand still
saturated by the retreating sea so that
you could literally see the stars –
Sirius there on the beach, blinking,
singing somehow the never ending music
of a whole ocean drawn back by
forces we so frequently forget,
all of it to unveil – for a moment –
what Orion looks like reversed
on this first mirror.
How can you say that we have not known
How can you walk with me here,
on the edge of myth itself, the stars
pointers to an endless story, longer
than the expanse before us, with more
words than grains of sand beneath
our tired feet, soaking up again
the charge of what is bigger,
and not know that you are this?
That you are me?
That we breathe each other
as we create the world before us;
that require this world
to create at all?
Can you touch the cold water
and coarse grain of the thing?
Can you answer yet what it feels like
to walk on sky? To wander between
the past as the waves crash on,
further out than we’ve ever been before.