This is the edge of <br />breath, a space <br /> where time ends <br />in a slow fall <br />down to the sea, <br />the deep womb <br />with which all of us <br />claim kinship, <br />salt of it sharp <br />in the warm blood, <br />pulse of it in <br />the pump of the heart. <br />Stand on this edge, <br />look down, and watch <br />white birds, <br />we are told souls <br />of those lost <br />at sea whose dreams, <br />whose wild cries <br />must haunt and warn <br />till time ends <br />all of us, pulls us <br />out, down <br />from the last edge <br />through thin air <br />once more to drown <br />through death to birth, <br />find birth in death, <br />and claim kin <br />with tide, with time, <br />the vast flux <br />of all that is, <br />from which we came <br />to stand on this edge <br />and face the fall <br />back to the deep <br />with changed wings.<br /><br />Robin Skelton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cliff/
