This is not hell,

It is the end,

The tip of farthest windswept shore,

Out there is nothing for a thousand miles,

Where lodestones spin amongst the clouds’ furore

How clear the churches thrust their towers from gloom,

How bright the angled sun illuminates the Marsh,

How hope is daily promised to this unique shore,

As carriage-houses cling suckled to their past.

Reclaimed with elemental arrogance;

The soil sucked screaming from the sea.

What thought possessed pipe-comfort minds,

Deluded us there would be no penalty?

We know we are its plaything

It knows we are its plaything

It has always known

We have always known

Bleakest in beauty, exposed in burnished autumn light,

Only those that stay will glean,

Only those that pause will see,

A foretaste of my paradise;

The warmest blanket,

The coldest night.

Familiar stars wheel

 

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