The ocean was a stilled river
and it was thinking one day
in no man’s land.
Was it the bulk of the water
or the number of fish in its belly rumbling
or the way it was locked with the shore’s lips…..
“Only the winds know the meaning”.
The winds stirred
heartless ripples with a silver moon beam
and the waves rose.
“It is the driftwood that knows and never speaks”.
The ocean took apart the driftwood
splinter by splinter
hearing only its waving tongue
until the strip of wood dissolved within its lips
like a beaten mousse.
The ocean was never still
when it lost the trace
of a timber’s tale
and it never saw the words of nothingness
from which the wood
the wind, the ocean…
was made of.
©Malintha Perera 2015