Oh, Jump, and I’ll Come to You, My Love

To run with white horses, white horses, white horses. Oh, how I long to ride them with you.

Because the cleats of life have left boot mark scars on my skin, and cast my torn petals to the swine of chagrin. But I still believe after all, I still believe I’ll be dressed and refreshed, tumbled and polished; my thorns removed, and they’ll carry you to me.

I still believe you’ll come.

They’ll scoop me up on kelp saddles once more, galloping in foamy blue lynchets; show me sovereign redwoods turning to matchsticks, the Andes abraded to sand. We’ll gallop in helical curlicues along gulfs that stretch from Kerala to Montague, the mangroves of Nok and the Firth of Forth.

Together they’ll drag and they’ll draw us to countless lagoons, past archipelagos, the Strait of Hormuz. Our xylophone bones tangled in each other’s embrace, forever we’ll dance in a damnable grace.

Till they reach down and gather me from the fount of the earth to the seat of the gods, I’ll wait for your splash, made coralline thereof; remain faithful to you, my peninsula love. I’ll await your anemone kisses with hope glittering in my pearly eyes; to run with me, on horses, white horses we’ll ride, to crash with white horses upon the same frilly coastlines.

For now, though, I’ll abide right here in the deeps, suspended by jellyfish in midwater streams, ensconced in the cove under midwinter moon-gleam. I’ll sing and abide on white horses, white horses. I’ll dance a puppet’s jig in brine, full fathom five, as the fish buoy me up and I feed them my eyes.

Because I still believe – though you didn’t jump, too – I still believe you’ll leap into the blue.

White horses, white horses, white horses…