This land cries
For all the world like gulls
On a storm-wind.
I set sail for unknown shores.

With the weight
Of a thousand rocks on my chest,
I sing the praises of stone.
The surf resounds
In the crannies of my breastbone,
Throbbing with the danger
Of setting out.

I ignore the landing-places
And fair beaches.
I pass all of them on.
My life is a coracle, after all,
Death a certain shore.

These are the waters
Of the destined few,
The sea-roads of the warriors.
I’ll roam farther
Than ever.
I’ll see new coastlines shrinking,
Feel the slap of different waves.

I’ll come close to the land
To call out to it,
And hear the way my cries echo back.
I will pit my wandering
Against the immovability
Of coastal islands.

And I’ll see home,
At last.
And you’ll be there for me.
Trodden-upon,
Forgotten, granite.
To cast yourself away again
For me.

And I’ll clamber out
And bless the land.

And turn and anchor myself
To your goodness.