A Dance by the Sea

And shall the clay speak?
Shall it ask of the the hands that shape it,
"What makest thou?"
Or shall it rest between subtle waves
dancing in those darker lands
that are no lands of ours?

Where spires rise from curling seas
Whose waves - while cunningly serene
shall ask of the sailor,
"where endeth yee?"
And should the answer - at a glance
be felled beneath that gentle trance

Perhaps, then, we may come to see
the shores of lands where endeth we
where still men hang from stoney walls
and waters shape the clay that falls
where time sings simple harmonies
with the deathless curling seas.