I used to think that South was all downhill,
That if you trickled down the map you’d find
A point where land would simply pause, then spill
Into a southern seascape of the mind.
A distant ship gives perspective; my eye
Is drawn towards its floating geometry.
This gentle wind is no more than a sigh
And sky and water touch in symmetry,
On days like this they settle and align.
I walk towards the waves across the beach
Whose pebbles rattle like a code, a sign
That language will be always out of reach
So asking why do these scenes fill my heart
Is answered by these flawed, cracked stabs at art.