We have come to mark it.
We have come to Morvah
to make our fucking mark on the place –
and the road that holds,
and the road that holds
old sun-scorched marks that call out
to be touched by young fingers.
The rocks are set,
droning a long note that begs
for us
to chop and mix it up
with squelching buzzing synths and
cut-up vocal chirps and hi-hat hits.
We are the young.
Our path is a magic marker scrawl
across your quiet lull. And you need us,
Morvah, you
motherfucking need us.
9. the cave that was smaller and darker and more intense than the one you’d imagined before, but which, by being suddenly real, captured for a fleeting moment all your fractured expansive ideals, in a small tangible way, warm with the presence of friends, with rocks you could cut and scrape your skin on, with touching and laughing and bleeding and bleeding and bleeding...
10. the drag of the waves receding*
Our last day.
We watch the sea. It
fights and breaks into waves
that mark their way
up the beach – a temporary
path, a low layered bank
carved in the ever-changing sand.
We build a dam. We change the water,
trap it in our glorious pool.
And the sea is slow to react, pawing
leisurely behind us
in it’s way –
But sure enough it comes,
not angry or melodramatic,
but gushing with enough measured force
to collapse our walls. It drags
clumps of sand back
into its churn
and smashes against rock.
For this is not home. There,
we saturate in vacant strangers’ passing faces
and coat our desires in obscene amounts of reverb
to drown out the terrifying
empty
spaces.
But here –
Here,
there is nothing but space,
nothing but stone and rock and call of sea.
And it feels nothing of our fiery resolve.
Our aching spirits pass over
like the shadows of drifting clouds
and are absorbed into the lull.
We could not touch the long and droning note;
only dissolve.
