She marches at high noon,
golden cross on strong back;
a leaden tick-tock clamours her presence
to all living witnesses.
Strength of the sea, shining bronze waves
ride to the night and other lonely places,
through branches or through roots,
but it's no coincidence.
Below the velvet, tense fibers;
strings collude to bridges
and my wishes bloom in the sultry moor,
under the warm, dark cloak.