Of the northland wind
I told my green daughter,
and of the red wine
that sometimes came down
from broken men.
To the northland sky
through a vertical sea
she rode six glass fish
and saw boats sinking
to my open caves.
The northland men,
their melon-headed bodies
shrugged with water,
turning and chasing
on walls of waves.
The northland night
was pale with stars
and golden faces
and the travelling hail
was sudden with light.
Down the vertical sea
her green hands whispered
to my ocean floor.
'Sea-god father, sea-god father,
they are greater than we,
greater than we...'
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