On Your Shores
By Chris Biles
After I have travelled so far,
I find the only place I do not feel
the sting of spider webs in my eyes,
the ache of pent up earthquakes in my shoulders,
the battle to breathe beneath thick water,
is on the shores of your island.
The trees sound the breeze, announce
the necessity, the beauty, of being blown,
shake and shudder in the sunlight
as only a companion can
to show she has been listening.
The sand, so fine, allows my feet to slide
into a certain certainty, a promise
only hinted at by the faltering of the stars.
The water, constant movement,
pushing and pulling, fills me up, draws me out,
then leaves me slightly sinking, hoping,
waiting for the next flood of familiarity
that will always arrive: that’s trust.
And yet I still sail the seas, pass earth beneath my feet.
It is a game I play: living in search,
as apparently lost as a piece of hollow driftwood
miles from shore, filled with nothing
but bristling brine. I see the devastation
in the face of the moon,
live for the anticipation in the flicker of the stars.
I am burned by the bare sun,
beating heart left on the floor.
Blinded by the traps of those who could care less,
drowning with the power of earthquakes
pent up inside, I am starving
for the shelter of silhouettes
between the sun and the deep sea;
for blowing branches, soft sand,
flooding familiarity, the will in the water;
for landfall: I am starving
for the satiation of my hunger on your shores.