Comforts of you
When the cold river bed runs still
that is when I will return to the channel,
still waters open against the slope.
I will dive down into the crystal tide
and comfort the lonely sighs of swells and secrets.
Cyprus, that is their name.
Those faithful guardians who build their fortress into the bank,
roots twisting beside fragile limbs of silt and sand.
They bow a courtesy to the wandering stream
and we close our eyes and lower our voices,
martyrs alive to witness the coming storm.