the little wavpacket that could

wooden planks on the high oceans,
bracing breeze capers about the upper end
of a planet of jesters and magicians
of vendors of mystery
and pallbearers of certitude.
On glass stands this society: crackling and sparkling along the fissures
the floor caves in much to the delight of the downward-bound citizenry.
But the oceans,
heaving and ho-ing,
tiptoeing through the cosmic vastness
and the people fall silent
their smiles freeze
their champagne stops a' mid-toast
they gather their lungs for a weaving song
and swing their vocals to the high heavens
and thanking the stars for the foaming grey gift
of tides and life.
And in a flash of collective brilliance
return to rending the fabric of built-up fashionry
and tension
pouring out the silken hues of tomorrow into tipped glasses.