Castaway

Castaway

It's said, no man is an island

yet from where I stand

all I see is shoreline

crashing waves and foam

lapping at my toes

no matter how high I climb

these breathless peaks of quenched fire

mine's the only road

passing by below

Sometimes from the summit

I see white wings on the horizon

always too far to tell

if they're the feathers of an angel

or the canvas of a sail

and though I set fire to a beacon

it never does much more

than warm me for the night

I guess the smoke that I send rising

toward the moon's soft argent light

loses its way among the clouds

fades behind their shroud

When it's quiet and the fire's crackle

at last dies to an ember,

the last memory of its flame

I lay back alone and listen

to the gentle humming of the world

to the subtle strain its playing

over the snare-whisk of the waves

the soft, strumming promise of her coming

an angel, a star as yet unnamed

I close my eyes to listen

feel her crescendo in the earth-song

her heartbeat pounding in my veins

and I know that with her arrival

my island will never be the same

I wake at the tide's insistence

shrug away the dream

wash off the sands of night

in the salt of the lonely sea

roll all my hopes before me

to my post upon the peaks

and when I spy another feathered sail

somewhere out to sea

I let my dreams tumble down again

to my signal on the beach.