ANN: There’ll come a day when doors open in the sea And the drowned emerge To walk the salt lip of the shoreline
On that day you might hear what seems to be The fluting of wind on rock Though people say there’s music under the blue-green skim Music in the walls of water A slow percussion of drums and bells in the wave-break
And the dead keep time as they go Marking the beat with their footfalls Their voices caught in the tug of the undertow
They say: Look back from the last of the land To the last of sky and sea And know this is all there is of it This is all we have in hand