So, at last, we will cross.
by Jon Anderson
Our season presupposes continents, lands
of desire. We toss
like unloved baggage where we stand,
and slowly the land gives over.
rises and hisses; distance simplifies
trees, houses. The small land speeds.
And we escape.
Here is your flying sea,
proportionless, your seascape
hung with birds, your frail launch
lightly bearing us in mist.
immediate. We had this
journeying at heart; yes, days
of it, weeks, buoyant, propelled.
The casual waves
blur like lines cast back. We have ourselves
out here; what else?
Birds fail. The sea shines
daily, is calm and -- who can tell? --
bottomless. There will be time.
And here I awakened into fear --
a destination, as your own;
an inlet, where
the waters shine
in welcome, where the journey
cries out: Here, where stones, enormous,
burrow in the sea.
The shoreline grows
specific, black and real.
Here is your consummate island;
mine. The sea is still.
The launch glides inland.
We stand in this full calm,
end. Friend, be kind,