There is music in the deep;
water running rich with phrase and tune,
carries notes flickering, silver-slick, like passing fish
drawing me with their song.
Snaring me in the watery warp and weft.
Singing me under. Drawing me down.
Pulling me, with lowering notes below.
Winding me close with chorded fronds
drawn hard and then pulled tight.
To listen is to falter and to fall beneath that liquid sound.
And where you stand, she said, you will always hear the song.
Where we stand, we will always hear the song.