"The horizon, my ancestors say,
is an eye. When it shuts
its lashes sift the sea for rafts
and turn fishermen and divers to stone,
their hands still clenched around pearls,
their blood turning crystalline and cold.
The gods were in love with the horizon.
They hung their jewels
on the night-sky and ebbed into the eye
while my people stared
at the orphaned trinkets.
The priestesses rummaged
through their rucksacks.
They rubbed twigs and killed goats.
They chanted and chanted
until their voices felled the trees.
The gods have vanished.
The storms and smog have snatched
their jewels from the sky.
When the skies cleared, we saw a sun
not even ours."
