The Crickets Sing


The crickets sing
and I sing with them.
Of sea and emptiness
and the sucking worry
like breeze through my bones.

The thread that binds us
floats gently as faerie gold,
twisting in the eerie insubstantial light,
true as tears and pixie dust,
glistening like the moon.

The cats cannot answer my heartsong,
the fever of doubt that burns behind my cheeks,
the stitch of fear.
They can only echo the sea,
patient and unmoving.

I stand at the edge of your sea,
singing my song of half-remembered laughter
into the open night.
But your waters are black in the dark,
and I cannot see.




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