On what symphony of sea,
It appears, out of what time,
What ancient icon of antique lore,
Came the white sea horse
To this island shore, a wave crest.
A light that receded into spray,
A presence of other world
Ridden over time's threshold
Still yet to be tomorrow dawns,
Those ephemeral regions created
Long before that rule our destinies.
White sea horse, who returns to be
& yet to be, primordial rhythm,
Ebb & flow in a dream as white as
The moon, wild search sea child
Mixed with the harvest of the sea.
*After: White Deer. Jorge Luis Borges.
Gift of Tongues