Vikings Poem by Tom Billsborough

On sharp black rocks the sea sloughs,
Snaking new channels, sharp as its abrading sound.
Its profound insidious motion cleaving hollows
As the living brain shapes pathways
For its new endeavours,
Its exploratory fervour.
I am this restless ocean of extravert desires
And introverted fears, a tidal being,
As the sharp, black bow cleaves the passive sands
My writhing consciousness alert
Extends outwards to the doubly curved horizon
As pale blue from the dark gradually unfolds
And the red lips of dawn shape new ideas,
And back towards the shore, my cries are echoing
That abrading sound, that vision of the conqueror.