Away

i found myself standing on a beach cliff,

its perpetual breeze chilling my face,

blowing my hair

on its own face,

the grey, dried soil,

showing me its broad  cheeks,

of cracked aggregates,

embedded with centuries old,

white shells,

eons of them,

above and below,

staring naked at me

their ghosts long gone,

up into the atmosphere,

carried away,

forever swirling by trade winds

their kin lie on rocky beds

alive in the coves,

as if trying to tell me something

of what has been,

buried deep in the past,

waiting their turn,

things the winds whisper

and they too carry,

secrets somehow,

of all they’ve heard and seen,

recorded in clay,

replayed by the voices

of winds and sea

to change my disposition,

and for some who listen,

to turn my course to wonder,

while they follow their own course

over immeasurable time,

embedded,

unimpeded

to the furthest points,

along the cliffs and on to infinity,

while i,

following their white veins,

as far as the timid eye can see

to the roar of breaking,

waves down below,

slamming rock and coral reef,

while their low murmurs,

instill courage to my heart,

their primal sounds give me sight

i feel now

by emboldened eye,

the seabirds,

whose eggs nestled,

on the sands below,

hidden,

away from marauders,

within the craigs of these,

limestone embedded cliffs,

give me comfort

that like them

I will find the same protection

from hatchlings

to feathered wings of speedy flight,

soaring free and high above,

gliding through the slate grey,

from pensive adoration to envy

if only i could,

i’d follow flight

i’d not come back

i’d fly with the tern,

the pelican

and the stork

i’d fly with the seahawks,

who follow the setting of the sun,

toward the limitless western horizon,

bearing ever so slightly

over phantom lines of time

soaring to the south i’d go,

over weeks of flight,

without measure,

or accord

on to the antarctic,

lost in the hurricanes

the stinging flecks of water and salt,

cleansing my soul,

washing my eyes

on the sharp ice of the bergs

freezing my skin

with the blue

of their solid walls,

of frozen cliffs,

where only there,

i’d find my own rest

frozen beneath the steel,

of the midnight sky,

i’d not die

the pin pricks,

of the platinum white,

starlit dome,

giving me life

immortality breathed,

of the night’s heaven,

steering my course

to everlasting splendor

away from the shores,

of earthen wastelands,

worn out by heavy treads,

redundant noise

mad moves,

endless goals with little purpose,

but for the pursuit of greater noise

worn out by men who have forgotten,

how to breathe in thoughtfulness,

in peacefulness

forgotten how to sit still and ponder

far away i’d fly,

far from the shores of sorry man,

and his constant wants and whines

his pains of violence and hunger,

his intrusive prying,

of self and greed

who has prodded and poked,

into my weary soul,

relentlessly,

without measure of restraint,

whose presence will

now be over and done

away,

away with it all

i’d fly to a place

where no one would find me

a place where even one,

whose presence calls himself friend,

cannot be

a place

where no creature dares come

but me,

solitary,

painful with lonely,

yet free