Spinning wheels and dried out fins,

We are blessed by the hungry tides,

And into them, my lone son rides.

I toss and turn upon the bedding,

Unable to fall into a peaceful sleep,

My last, brave and stupid fledgling,

His soul, the tides would reap.

I outrun you, you on the red mare,

Sure that you’d be caught by the sea’s snare.

Just like Michael, on his dappled grey,

Lost to the North, in the gloomy fray.

My Michael, after Stephen and Shawn,

Brought back in a bundle, just this dawn.

Nothing remains, but a shirt and stocking,

T’was the cruel Almighty, serenely mocking.

I wish, I wish it was just a lie,

That a man who is born, has to die.

Six coffins were made, to that I saw.

One more soon, from the gaping maw.

When the liquid black night falls,

Thousands of orbs it enthralls.

Burning stars light up our eyes,

The quiet fireworks masking our cries.

My son, when you ride out to the rising sea,

Take a deep breath and look at the sky,

Prepare yourself for life’s eternal sleep,

But never forget your mother’s lullaby.

And then, I shall bid adieu,

With a gentle smile, not a frown,

Drifting into the dark winter with you,

Till human voices wake me, and I drown.