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Updated: Mar 12, 2020

Temple-dark dawn's first light

mothering forth love,refugee

from the womb~sea's history;

a tide carrying the child, death.

Hope-blind from gassed stars;

word bombs cluster, calling

agasp from hacking trees,

leaf by choking brown leaf;

driving you free, exiled over

droning, speculated horizons.

Ours, the shingle mind

of the eastern shore,

a~shift in the treachery

of islanding arabesques;

scrawling out bestiaries

of Sogdian subtlety

on the iron Baltic air;

' Our wyrd, an amber pulse,

a word-worshiping surf,

of far-migrant tongues.'

Out, out wide over whale-

roading waves of winter,

these white-arcing wings,

heaven-streaming gulls,

trawl this frothing island

and its mew of migrations.

On thermals threading from

funeral silvered Sutton Hoo

to slave silvered Timbuktu;

this flotsam-weathered 'we',

home from oceans, beached

sea-ward, we reverse refugees,

stunned into a sun~like stillness,

seeking the undying surge,

of the sea : wave dark graves:

a wing tip's horizon of peace.


Sogdiana was the kingdom at one end of the ancient silk roads. The Sogdians were the greatest merchants of the silk roads.

'Wyrd' is an Anglo~Saxon word connoting destiny or fate.

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