As we corner on the following gusts,

   Rain driving past our ears

   With an edged murmur we can

   No longer outrun, no matter

   How fleet memory holds us to be,

   The sea rises to meet us, spuming

   In the wrath of its tenants, for whom

   The rent on breath itself has become

   Unpayable in any coin but

   The ashes they will soon inherit.
 
 

- David W. Mitchell
 

to David   /  to Moongate
.