At the edge of a cliff, she stands. Seabirds crouching below her in the tight-lipped caves,
Caverns that pockmark the hounded rock,
Receeding, pushed back and broken..
Bleeding rust and dew.
Daresay i, 'she looks like a windblown tree, softly
Swaying with the zephyrs on the clifftop, the clifftop barren,
Blank slate except the windblown tree is she.'
She watches, she watches the world fade away,
Abstractly obscured by the mist from breakers clashing,
Vapours chasing through the air, locked
In position as a windblown tree.
Tell again, 'she is no tree, she's a people,
Player in a play, only herself,
Head of the set with her hair all splayed out,
Octagonal sunset marred by blurry starlight.'
She watches, she watches as the seabirds fall,
Flicker through the sunset's beams.
Broken, bleeding rust and dew,
Daunting tasks; she's hesitating.
Heavy-hearted, she sighs, 'Yes, i watch,
Watch and wait for the sun to fall,
Flighty darkness to settle down quickly,
Quietly, so that sooner than later,
Lest time creep up and back me down, I can
Cast myself over this cliff,
Carry past the caverns and coughing birds,
Blanch and bleed on the rocks below while
Waiting waves carry me away.'