O Mind The Door, O Mind The Sea, P4 (V3)

Sea Shanty, Viking, Irish Folk, Irish accent, Deep Voice

One came broad with a boar’s old breath,
Primal warrior near to death.
A man till the storm split hide from prayer,
Then earth shook loose and he became the bear.

Lean just right and pressure mends,
The broken body breaks and bends.
The beast in the ribs, the man in the rain,
Both came roaring back a gain.

A gain, a gain, the dock-piles shake,
A gain, a gain, the old bones wake.
When the boar runs deep and the bear ascends,
Lean just right and pressure mends.

One stood curved in the marshland dim,
A harvest blade with a mourner’s hymn.
Not a weapon, not a scythe,
Great for rice and borrowed life.

A Giant born from borrowed death,
It did not boast, it counted breath.
Its edge bent low where the grain would bow,
Yet all the dead watched anyhow.

A gain, a gain, the rice fields sigh,
A gain, a gain, beneath black sky.
Not a weapon, not a scythe,
But death still knows the borrowed life.

One dragged chain through the harbor floor,
Mooring, Mourning, Mornin, more.
A dragon head with a blue-lit eye,
That bit at grief and worried the sky.

Aka this and probably that,
The old folk argued where names were at.
But he looked at me like I had always been,
And the chain went still in the salt-dark din.

A gain, a gain, the iron rings,
A gain, a gain, the sea grief sings.
Morning, mourning, tied in chain,
What was lost comes wet with rain.

One axe flew out and came back bright,
A single throw through thunder-night.
It always returned, all sharp, all ready,
Making small noises, strange and steady.

He nodded once, and the roots below,
Moved like secrets under snow.
A crack of blue, a laughing spark,
A foolish sound in the harbor dark.

A gain, a gain, the blue arcs run,
A gain, a gain, the throw is done.
Cast it once and hear it sing,
It comes back ready for the next thing.

One kept twin bows in crates and jars,
Under cloth and harbor stars.
A hoarder of projectiles and perishing things,
Little deaths with folded wings.

Not copied wrong, not stitched from sin,
Two iron mouths waited within.
One shot wandered, one shot knew,
One truth in one, one truth in two.

A gain, a gain, count bolt and bone,
A gain, a gain, no shot alone.
Not copied wrong, not stitched from sin,
The second truth comes circling in.

So there they stood where the cold tide crossed,
The seer, the shield, the dancer lost,
The gate, the root, the beast, the blade,
The chain, the axe, the twin-bows laid.

And the quay grew wide as a cathedral nave,
With lanterns hung above the wave.
The sea looked in.
The dead looked through.
The rain fell black.
The signs rang blue.

A gain, a gain, the cold bells call,
A gain, a gain, through one and all.
Mind the tide and mind the foam,
Some things return that were never home.

A gain, a gain, the lanterns sway,
A gain, a gain, the doors give way.
If such folk meet by rain and shore,
Something lost walks back once more.

2865/7500

One came broad with a boar’s old breath, Primal warrior near to death. A man till the storm split hide from prayer, Then earth shook loose and he became the bear. Lean just right and pressure mends, The broken body breaks and bends. The beast in the ribs, the man in the rain, Both came roaring back a gain. A gain, a gain, the dock-piles shake, A gain, a gain, the old bones wake. When the boar runs deep and the bear ascends, Lean just right and pressure mends. One stood curved in the marshland dim, A harvest blade with a mourner’s hymn. Not a weapon, not a scythe, Great for rice and borrowed life. A Giant born from borrowed death, It did not boast, it counted breath. Its edge bent low where the grain would bow, Yet all the dead watched anyhow. A gain, a gain, the rice fields sigh, A gain, a gain, beneath black sky. Not a weapon, not a scythe, But death still knows the borrowed life. One dragged chain through the harbor floor, Mooring, Mourning, Mornin, more. A dragon head with a blue-lit eye, That bit at grief and worried the sky. Aka this and probably that, The old folk argued where names were at. But he looked at me like I had always been, And the chain went still in the salt-dark din. A gain, a gain, the iron rings, A gain, a gain, the sea grief sings. Morning, mourning, tied in chain, What was lost comes wet with rain. One axe flew out and came back bright, A single throw through thunder-night. It always returned, all sharp, all ready, Making small noises, strange and steady. He nodded once, and the roots below, Moved like secrets under snow. A crack of blue, a laughing spark, A foolish sound in the harbor dark. A gain, a gain, the blue arcs run, A gain, a gain, the throw is done. Cast it once and hear it sing, It comes back ready for the next thing. One kept twin bows in crates and jars, Under cloth and harbor stars. A hoarder of projectiles and perishing things, Little deaths with folded wings. Not copied wrong, not stitched from sin, Two iron mouths waited within. One shot wandered, one shot knew, One truth in one, one truth in two. A gain, a gain, count bolt and bone, A gain, a gain, no shot alone. Not copied wrong, not stitched from sin, The second truth comes circling in. So there they stood where the cold tide crossed, The seer, the shield, the dancer lost, The gate, the root, the beast, the blade, The chain, the axe, the twin-bows laid. And the quay grew wide as a cathedral nave, With lanterns hung above the wave. The sea looked in. The dead looked through. The rain fell black. The signs rang blue. A gain, a gain, the cold bells call, A gain, a gain, through one and all. Mind the tide and mind the foam, Some things return that were never home. A gain, a gain, the lanterns sway, A gain, a gain, the doors give way. If such folk meet by rain and shore, Something lost walks back once more.

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