The Blue Book


On top of a wave looking down
at salt, sand, a swirling seabed
and suddenly I know
without needing to see:
the dolphins have returned!

All grey and white and whistling joy
and, in the next swell,
a split second glimpse
of what it must be like to die at peace,
unperturbed by the six foot drop
because their feelings dance
with my own, beat their way
through my blood,
beckoning me on, alone,
way out in the deepest blue and,
looking back,
another swell surfed by fifty more,
the water itself vibrating
as the vast resonating chamber it is
with bonds that borrow from each other
to pass on the sacred sound
far beyond themselves.

Far beyond the fleeting moment
of their own coherence,
so that it travels like that first concerto,
all crashing wave, all soaring joy:
the freedom of salt and singing life.


This pride is not rancor quad même

Face fear to feel it