The owl we heard last night hoots near the road
and a fox barks deep among the oak trees.
Though it is moonless and the sea a sliver
of a different dark, light pollution
from the small resort to the east
means we must find the westernmost wall
to lean against and view the stars tonight.
We see them trembling and marvel, wordless,
so many more than we ever remember.
We forget they are always above us.
‘What is the sky for?’ I asked my mother
and she said, ‘To hold the stars,’ and I wondered.
‘What colour is the sea?’ I asked my mother
and she said, ‘The colours of the sky.’
‘What is the sea for?’ I asked my mother
and she said, ‘To give us life,’ and I knew.
A discarded bottle returns sculpted,
an iron spar rusted, shapeless, their journeys
unchartable but so much remains –
so many bones unburied, so many
stories unfinished – for there is no dark
like the deep of the oceans. Corals
that we will never touch, blind creatures
we will never see teem down, down in the
cold, indigo ravines.