(for Cerys Lewis)

. . . but some books float, Prospero,
and not all words bleed black into the waves.
Let these pages be tide-turned now,
polyp-bound and clasped with kelp;
spells brine-read until philosophy wears a carapace,
magi swim, and squid-inked runes are cast.
All deeps invert; tides at last divorce the moon
and gulls race risen ships upon a self-willed swell
to give the land one last embrace.