The yearning vibration 

of the sea green bay

and the clatter of coins

in the cold stone bowl

like beating on bones

in brittle winter shine and rain—

yuletide time slides by

from the town down below

and we on the hill

swear that our wills of iron

can carry us to far away

before we’re sucked hip deep

in shifting sand—

no place darker

than that grove by the beach

the taste of salt and still chilled skin

and the drop down deep

from the cliff to the sea—

and it seemed a finger snap

could bring the springtime back again

and make the field of blackness grow

the perfect ebb and flow

of soundless timeless chatter

covering the stillness 

and the body 

down below.