My sin is tight lipped.
Once the soft graze flares
no wind will blow off course,
no current rip it far
for a carcass on the shore.
The sea can rage on tongues slipped soft,
lash rain on twined fingers
or howl in the silence
which cannot part lip from lip.

No speech gilds my guilt.
This big sky thrones me,
spurns judgement to rant
and seethe until judgement day,
while tacit life, unvoiced
shouts at the same sky
that washes time away.
Quiet blue conceives consequence,
its stillness cures and kills expertly.

My silent offence is silence.
A relentless thrum chokes,
conceals strident song
crafts discord longing for a day,
a night of unbroken significance.
I am fashioned by a falcon
calling along the heath,
kissed by a distant life
which sings with eager breath.