From the depths of the sea, they came. Homeless.
Creatures of hapless form, and formless bodies.
Animals carved in the nature of blindness,
without godly supervision; deities.

Convicts they were; that which is wrong,
Leaving behind a world lost to them. Alas,
Their crime is that they did not belong.
But even in exile, they hold debt to their past.

They flopped, they crawled and oozed,
Out of old skin, they became something new.
So the years passed and frequently bruised,
They became gargantuan and further still; grew.

Inhabiting a land, once uninhabitable; now tamed.
Creating dominion over raw nature, they climbed.
Hills, valleys, mountains, volcanoes! They claimed.
Even in the face of annihilation, they climbed.

Above it all they choose to rest, touching the sky.
The creatures learned time, then they chased it.
Always pursuing it, always getting one step ahead. Fly,
They soon did, faster, faster, faster, they chased 'it'.

Until they broke out of the awesome surface.
Like once before they made prints on lands once untouchable.
The creatures are creatures no more. At least not all.
But, soon. All the creatures will float away 'pon solar winds.

I look back on the first of them all. The scared,
Unsheltered and curious creature of the old world.
It looks upon me, with questioning, unaware of destiny. Unprepared,
In its dark eyes, I see light. Light that I am closer to taming. Knowledge unfurled.

agony builds, weak
languishing dubious eels
languishing, dryly

The  Deluge

Heavy  thundery  rain
Cascading  down  from  the  heavens.

The  sheer  volume  of  water
Causing  a  sinister  mist  across  the  rooftops.

A  waterfall  suddenly  fell
In  front  of  my  window.

The  gutters  unable  to  cope.

For  a  few  moments
It  felt  like  the  end  of  the  world.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Listening to the sea,
that dark looking glass
like the watchboy they ask
about the night, my brother,
the black mirror you see,
I know almost nothing about,
I heard a dirge of burning longboats
like the songs the dead sing
to put me to sleep, my death,
if I could tell you about it,
my Captain, I would but I slept
right through it, not dreaming.

these days everything is blurry
and i keep forgetting all the things i want to write.
in exchange my poetry is a strange entity
that doesn't quite fit my hands.

these days the sun shines far too bright.
the light upon the ocean water is as good as blinding;
the sand is burning coal beneath my feet.
everything is burning;
but somehow, i still drown.

these days everything is just tumult,
is ocean waves crashing against my back,
begging to pull me in.
the water darkens,
deepens,
does its best to lose me in it.

and when it isn't -
when it isn't, i am wrung dry upon a desert,
half-buried.
it is either storm or drought with me, these days,

and i am ready for neither.

Feldspar, Quartz, calcium and granite
                   slip slowly through my hand
Crushed by time
                           into small grains of sand
A Millennia of time
           shaping the ground where I stand
Stretching for miles
                               under sea and over land
Time held together
                           by this last fragile strand
As the beginnings of life
                     slip slowly through my hand

The waves come washing in
The wave go washing out
Like so many times before

Footprints and seashells in the sand
You can see near and far, like so many times before
The waves come washing in and out, like so many times before

The sunset rises up out of the water
People gather on shore, like so many times before
The waves come washing in and out, like so many times before

The waves come washing in
The waves go washing out
Like so many times before

There's a reason
dear reader
that the Vikings
set out to sea.

Viking women.

Tall.
Beautiful and fierce.

They craved the treasures
of Ireland
and the fabrics of the
northern coast.

Sent their men out
in open boats to find it
and bring it surely home.

Gave them a sprig
of chamomile
a taste of watercress
and urged them to sharpen swords.

This was not the story of
Lysistrata.
Not at all.

Yet I know this story well
living with a Viking woman
as I do.

She hounds me
nips at my heels
keeps me on the straight
and narrow.
And at the dawn of the day
drives me out upon the
steel grey sea.

So bid me adieu,
you who listen
there is fury at my back
and the open ocean ahead.

She learned to open her eyes under water
She's living under sea


She,

who didn't knew how to swim.