A Wise Man’s Poem
THE SPIRIT OF THE WEST.
As the evening grows on a grey, rocky Shore,
And the rocks on the east with moss owing over,
The scattering of isles like steps to the sea,
Leading out of the harbor, on a soft, salty breeze.
From where artistry in poverty, was known to confide,
Within her empty breast,birth pangs of an isle,
And gulls they sing,and they sway o’er my head,
A poverty of land is left unsaid.
And carried out into blue,
where nothing except the few
wide open waves that carry the sea,
Into this harbour,do caress my feet.
And lying awake,sweating in beds,
This country she cries,for her children have fled
their tears are wiped as sure as the sea,
that caresses their their shores,on emmigrant piers
For when all is said and done,there has to be more,
A something that knows and lives like th lore,
Hidden,though alive,as the night-time falls in,
Beneath the darkness,Something,it lives.
it breeds; it hears; it listens and moves,
just as the sea, caressing the shores,
of the west where i stand,
the raw, untended coast;
invited to something that is silent, unknown.
Breathing so silent ;brought all to its breast,
As as the call of the gull, and the smell o’er the crest,
Calls out a freedom, leads my heart to unrest,
To yearn for the land , the spirit of the west.
For when pressures of the man are burdened on you
And the dark falls in, oh let your eyes move;
To the softness of the coast, for Hidden in salt smells,
Is something alive to take you out of your hell.
Oh breathe now sweetly, for there has to be more,
And it’s painted vividly as the eve turns to gold,
kissing the sunlight, and the waters now silver,
Oh these shores foretell sweet lands that lie yonder.
And the ocean it kisses a wide open Tear;
That’s eats at the fragments of a feild that’s so rare,
The kiss of the the swash and the song of the gull,
Whistles in her heart and echoes her soul.
To the depth of self, I go on this shore,
For Sounds and smells, they speak of lore,
Upon her worn strand oh quietly do stand,
Where man and nature go hand in hand.
Now stand and stare where the stars meet the sea,
Where blue seems choral, and the wind it breathes,
Feel the freshness now that heaves in your breast
Beneath a moon lapping, quietly;
Is the real spirit of the west.
© Mr Vinny Finn.