The shag flies low across the pewter sea,
The gallant penguins stand their guard right there,
Kelp stretches out its silent floating plea,
The striped cliffs rise up and the rocks are bare.
Even the seagulls’ cry is muted here
In misty caverns where the cold waves play.
And, in this constant movement, all is still.
In this pale light these southern seas are grey.
This is a place where restless dreams find rest
In the chill silence, where the rains have been.
This needs no human touch, no human hand,
The fragile strength of brown and slate and green.
