Dawn breaks with a whip of fire across the ocean.
The boatmen rise and fall upon the waves as morning takes its first breath,
and the boatmen sing.
The song is everywhere, echoing through the morning wind, diving into
The tumbling waves then spat out as salty spray that rises in a vapour
towards the sky.
Clouds fall into the ocean and the afternoon melody becomes enclosed
within a circle of grey and white hazy mountains. A theatre of fog.
The song escapes.
Caught amongst the flapping wings of the sea birds, the music takes flight
And it circles and hovers amongst the stickmen, floating on a
Streak of mist, facing heaven’s door.
The boatmen weep and wave goodbye and the song becomes a hymn,
And the shrinking sun dips peacefully upon the sorry sea,
As the day dies and the boatmen sleep.
© Kirsty Lear-Grant