Weavers, shape shifters, 

hunched and cloaked

right to dawn’s break.

Solstice a crafting, 

a forging of magic horizons.

Dimensions from a sailor’s eye, 

pitched in roll and yaw.

In the star-lit dark

this bleed of caulk, it

trails tall ships:

as they meander on 

their long ways home.

And through clear skies, 

five thousand silver bolts

clamp  the plates of heaven, 

secure and safe.

A roof for the heads

of necromancers and

seers, invisible wanderers

of these seven seas. 

Sailors pluck those bolts

to plot their ways.

Ursa Major points to

Polaris, the north star.

And tall ships creak and 

cut through a choir of dark

songs. As thousands of suns

glitter cold and far away.

Grim are the ways of murking

that meet the water's end.

Under this, the last horizon.

And all the night,

hungry ghosts still cry

over  the mournful briny.

As time is scarce,

and their feet 

are wet with sea.

©️ Dai Fry 17th June 2020.