Words under Pressure #4

Big Blue

There is a certain bird that sings
In the brazen heat of midday
Bell-toned, hypnotic, long.
While sane men sleep till dusk.

There is a scented, heavy air
That hangs, breathing sweetness day and night.
It turns blood to honey
Makes mind peaceful in body.

There is a pace to island life.
Slow, comfortable. Tomorrow comes never.
Men sit under the shade trees
Feet in silken dust, drinking island gold.

There is a tremor that seizes their souls
And their heads rise to the thousand-mile wind,
Their eyes follow the seabirds
Where the ocean changes hue.

And they drag down their painted boats
And they set out across the deep
And they chase the brilliant, darting fish
And they come home, quieted.


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