And because they come atop the sea
with furrowed brows and wordless rush,
we slip to occupation.

Not by intent to dwell, or dream the day,
we miss high alert at ghosting bay.
Chaos ensues, laylines lay broken,
the end of beginning begun.

And whilst the architects of time, and tide,
are arching their backs in a study of silence,
for an hour we may borrow their pen.

Draw, they say, make reverie.

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