Here a path ends, above reap and reel, the sea stones and the long rills. Here I find a quiet hour, where no wind sounds and no breath follows. I walk above the sea, the broken paths above the mysteries of the high alters drowned, and by sea light read in the cursive of birds, as we hang in mid air, a sorcerer’s word. I scatter in the scattering waves, all longing in the buoy bell, the black hags raising their black wings to the sun, in becoming, undone.