Children of Lyr
by Wulf Losee

...I saw a glittering light, and asked him whence it came. "
It is," said he, "The waters of the deep gathering upon us." --William Wordsworth

Pelicans slide in a line down a shallow angle
down to the Pacific like clouds that have condensed
to become white birds gliding on black-tipped wings.
They scan the sea looking for a restless cradle
anchored on the surface of the kelp gardens.

The wetsuit traps my body's heat and holds me.
Its slick and smothering warmth buoys me
in the frigid upswells of the deep Pacific.
The cold waters flood into the shallows
out from beyond the edges of the kelp
out from where the sky joins the sea
out where the white sail boats tack
under the shingle of the waiting fog
where the shoals drop off and fall away
and where the sand trickles down into dark canyons.

The streamers of kelp hold and tangle me.
Their soft embracing tentacles push me and pull me
as they sway in heavy-stranded curtains.
I close my eyes and I drowse
and I forget the meaning of this poem.
The kelp compresses and expands and breathes
in the surge and the swale of the waves.
It murmurs in the tongue of dark waters
drowning the words and thoughts of the verse
which dissolve like a bitter salt in the sea.

The shell of surpassing brightness
trails a chain of bubbles
as it tumbles out of sight.
It falls into deeper zones.