A wind in the water presses
to the surface;
currents turn circles in oceans.
The paths of the ancients push
dark waters aside as they
pull from lands, meeting in the center.
Bones rest deep in blue black
sandy depths.
The violets of eyes wilt, feeding
the hungry and quick.
Sunlight fails under the hold of fathoms.
Beneath a deep night moon
voices rise, releasing names and messages
on the surface; an orchestra of last words
from the altars below.
Roger Singer 