real

The Real Thing
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Once upon a time there lived a man
On a sea-rock island, washed by the tang of spray
And the smell of pine where the forest river ran
Into the cove, in a rivulet silver-grey

As the moon. He liked to pace the beaches at night
For sometimes he'd hear the mermaids' emerald keening
Or see moonlit sea-horses dancing. He'd lie down and write
Words in the sand, cacophonous sound-webs of meaning

Which the sea would lap over, maybe to wash up elsewhere.
Sometimes he saw starry shadows, empty and cold,
Confusing the senses as if only darkness was there.
But he went on believing in his wealth of ocean-strewn gold.

On far-distant shores, the 'Important' wars went on,
And 'Truth' was discovered, and the sunlight of Knowledge shone.
But the man wanted nothing and just went on living on his quiet island.