We have no need of earth or sky to guide us through this perfect life.
We need not be tethered to the clay,
No feet of mud or halos, relics, wings or holy rhymes.
We are the compass rose. And we may rise and simply soar ourselves away

At the first we fly in this direction. At this perspective everything begins
Attracting needles, pines and sailors as they navigate their ships
From seventh sea to ocean deep. The great expanse of comet-seeded lynn.
With hymns perhaps within their hearts, and rum most likely on their lips
These mariners, perhaps with albatross as burdens, look toward one glossy star
Who rises on this axis. Dazzling, demur, afar. A pure and lofty Guenevere.

Our next vocation. Towns arise from nothing. From the high hills and lowly plains.
And monuments tower over all with fresher monuments atop.
And distant cattle graze in moon-bright washes as she waxes, wanes,
And shines on pitted, shadowed stones away this way. A thousand years toil by.
And, on some special nights, these traces of our canny ancestry
May rouse themselves awake, wrest-up and shake away their roots and soil
To dance around the village; sing in mighty stony, granite voice
As bells ring out in other villages. Leagues beneath the distant Severn Sea

Another sea, this one ancient, dry and dead, as our tertiary goal we reach.
On landmarks let our fingers trace the contours laid by time
This is a swallow, fen, or bristledown or moss on which we meet.
Our sunken land is flat and black and covert, secreting nature’s salty hide
Where once the silken water courted necks and hides and fins and teeth.
Smooth and warm, the lives that thrived within this sacred place
Lull us to our sleep as we imagine them here with us, where we are now.
And as they are so we will be. But it matters not. The where. The why. The how.

Our terminus… our final voyage-end… is drains and old canals and dirty towns.
Where people live within in tidal-reach with gull and heron and egret.
The wave came, the sea reclaimed the land, and so the land was drowned.
Further now, far from the path of history with its elderly regrets
By the banks of a sweet river. We are in the North-By-Northwest.
We come to rest. We float above a Flat Bridge and our journey ends.

We have no need of earth or sky to guide us through this perfect life.
We need not be tethered to the clay,
No feet of mud or halos, relics, wings or holy rhymes.
We are the compass rose. And we may rise and simply soar ourselves away.