For island nations there is always a magical tension between land and sea.

Sunrise Sea

From the clifftop I watched the blackness

absolute (or so I thought) as time

seemed endless. I swear, Celestine,

it might have gone on forever ….

 

The gale fairly whistled across my face,

cold as a second wife, while,

leaning exultantly forward, I prepared to fly.

 

Then, over the roaring tempest's song,

with the beach sand sloughing,

I glanced a line between sea and sky;

just a suspicion you understand -

mere black on blacker.

 

And something more: I made out

upon the new horizon an unearthly shadow

lying in the gloom; now a silhouette

as a spreading, lightening tint emerged behind.

 

“The Morning's coming,” I whispered …

O, its progress so slow and stately, Celestine,

as the canvas before me grew;

low chalk cliffs on either hand,

the swaying grasses brushing the gale.

 

Below, I felt the thump of wool-white cascading surf

dashed to spume and rainbow mist,

angering down on tumbled basalt

as the golden orb appeared,

 

firing great gouts of flamed reds and cadmiums

at startled horizon clouds while touching

and lighting endless lines of heaving swells.

 

Now the spell's broken; broadening day basks

in triumph as Sol begins her creeping ascension

towards heavenly dominion, so soon to lose.

 

As I reached the car I risked a final glance,

to find the dark steamer a smudge of smoke haze

gone upon its way; the sea now as empty as a last train,

its magical presence revealed, and slain.

 

Never let too much light shine

upon your brave soul, Celestine,

lest it burn your heart to ashes.

 

Christopher Hubbard

2019