Cliff

This is the edge of
breath, a space
where time ends
in a slow fall
down to the sea,
the deep womb
with which all of us
claim kinship,
salt of it sharp
in the warm blood,
pulse of it in
the pump of the heart.
Stand on this edge,
look down, and watch
white birds,
we are told souls
of those lost
at sea whose dreams,
whose wild cries
must haunt and warn
till time ends
all of us, pulls us
out, down
from the last edge
through thin air
once more to drown
through death to birth,
find birth in death,
and claim kin
with tide, with time,
the vast flux
of all that is,
from which we came
to stand on this edge
and face the fall
back to the deep
with changed wings.

by Hannah Smith

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