The Last Season Of An Atlantic Bird
By Roy D. Follendore III
Copyright © 2004 by RDFollendoreIII
Written on Virginia Beach June 9, 2004
Atlantic so constant
and oh so true,
today I bow once more,
where other wild ears only look up
to hear those crystalline bubbles
of your surfs awful roar;
I find that must search my throat for fragile words
and clear my eyes for your color of blue,
Thus braced I now can brave
your constant cold,
and the foam of your fingers
as you swirl round my feet.
Soon I may be just a little too old,
to say what I say now;
that we shall always meet.
But for now you may splash your gifts
upon my knees so that I might cry
and hold my breath just a little longer
to your azure wet streams.
You are the largest cold Ocean,
and you are surely the truest of
the vast ancient seas.
There I have said it!
Now kiss my tongue once more, as I pray
to our annual salty dreams
and as I breathe your haze.
For only then will I know that you have
felt my wondering gaze,
even as your cold body
has turned my nerves to stone.
I have always known your driven heart
just as I have touched
your liquid hand,
just as you now transport
my toes into your wandering sand.
And so it is to you my watery Mother,
that the last call of my breath now sends;
"Lost brothers of my kind; Old brave gulls;
"Forget me not!"
"These grey feathers shall always fly through your ocean winds.”