your words circle the table setting
like seagulls above an ancient pier —

we are tied securely to the table
and you are saying and saying and
with staccato clink of silver and china 
you scatter the pieces of your day —

if only for this and if it weren’t for that
and all of it going straight to hell —

until suddenly then
with sharp scrape of chair on tiles
you are away again to the streets
a weary but briefly unburdened trawler
out into the gathering night and
back to your brooding sea.

Glimmering in the night sky
The ancestors

Who dug the holes in the earth
Who lined up the stones
Who stretched canopies of leaves
And built the fires
And cooked the animals 
And planted the seeds
And gathered the fruits

Who formed the words
And made the love
And fought the battles 

The first of everything 
The last of everything 

The ancestors 
And all they gained
And all they lost 

Glimmering in the night sky