The pines moan when the wind passes
sands of the beach warms to the beat of the sun

Ghost-like ships stroll at the edge of the world
Crusted with salt and brilliant as fishes

White birds of the ocean
Guide themselves in the air
Then suddenly,
drop into the blue
like shooting-stars
Their bodies taken by space.

Small hands shape lone hills and sleeping valleys
the waves take their stories away.

And an ancient nostalgia of being a mast
sways in the pines.