The boy, he sits upon the cliff,
head bowed down and his tears streaming —
back home, his mother ’s cold and stiff
as if asleep, but not dreaming.
She washed ashore just yesternight
after a week missing abroad;
she had left the farm aft a fight
with her husband, that sorry sod.
From off this cliff the mother fell
while gathering up bitter tears,
thinking whether she ’d wait a spell
and return home, despite her fears.
But bleak and bitter was the moor
and the world was but a shadow,
the Song of Tides surged on the shore
and the moon called with a mad glow.
Down she fell into the ocean
as if of mind to be as free,
as some say, or so their notion
that she chose the tides of the sea.
For tides fling up along the bluff,
strumming a song of froth and spray,
and though it can be hard and tough,
there ’s no hatred in its way.
For the sea has a strong embrace
that can crush what it loves to death,
yet still she plunged from that high place
so the sea could take her last breath.
Unlike a man when in his drink
whose hands tighten to two hard fists,
the sea surges, but does not think,
splashing softly with its flung mists.
And though her body lay on land,
her soul is still in the free tide…
Look! The son reaches out a hand
where flung-fingered froth becks inside.