Where the Pen Fails

Whenever I come home to Change Islands I am immediately awestruck by the beauty of this little island.  I don't forget that it's beautiful but I forget somehow, the manner in which it's beautiful.  I have seen the ocean in many places, but the blue water that laps against this place is of a different colour than any other, perhaps caused by a combination the reflection of the sky, the cliffes surrounding it and the stone beneath the surface.  I cannot describe this place.   It leaves me wordless.  This poem was written after this morning's walk.  This place has a million poems.  It needs a million poets.

Where the Pen Fails

Where the pen fails is at your cerulean tips
crested white with ageless rolling surf
what defeats the quill is where your granite shores
meld into voluptuous grassy turf

Where the muse rejoices is in your nameless blue
and the salt-kelp smell of a gentle sea-washed beach
Where the scribe falls short lies somewhere in between
held tightly in the hand and ever out of reach

Where the spirit soars is around the  marble markers
bleached by the divine-lifted early morning heat
Where the eyes worship is written in cotton clouds
by that mysterious hand that nothing can defeat

Where the pen fails is at your cerulean tips
stilled by a sudden dearth of rose-tipped prose
So the heart becomes the quill and writes the lines
of poetry that spirit always knows