Strange Things
'I'm a bright eyed sailor on a flower-pick sea.'
Alexandra Burgar | 17 June 2016

Strange things, we are.

Naïve children of a rolling sky,

The pale-eyed moon-blink gaze

that sweeps us in satin when we weep

for our days and our weeks.

 

I'm a bright eyed sailor on a flower-pick sea,

The edge of the world but a breath away,

With seaweed at my toes,

And hair like coiled rope.

We are the choke of song in mist.

 

We are strange things,

Born of the tides and hills,

We are earthquakes and storms.

Born of ourselves.

We are strange things.

 

Original Image by Lucy Roberts

James Routledge 2016