I weep at your gravesite, forever
apart from your water burial.
The breath of life may still
exist in you,
but I am shored, only listening
to the sirens. I cannot fight them.
The moon is your maiden, her
tide your enchantment. To
the night's mistress I've lost
you: I don't know her, for I've
always been shored.
I cannot fight what
took you, for I never
knew the waves.
So I stand and weep
at the dry mounded land,
always
freshly caressed and
wetted with love,
representing you
in your death, or
your life, as a
sailor.
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