Generator

An ancient metal cog polished by use.
From the darkened edge of the horizon
the moon rises as both god and instrument
(but god first.)
It moves steadily up from the sea
powering the tidal machinery
pumping the salt water, driving it harder, higher
into the softest margin of the shore.
On the beach as if from beneath a dark shawl
dull, black discs crawl
out from under
the collapsing folds of water.
The turtles are responding
to the archaic movements
of the lunar mechanisms,
offering to the moon
(just as we did in our ascent from the sea)
their offspring; small votive moons buried in the sand.
(As in all rites, this sequence
must always be the same -
pilgrimage, procession, ritual, retreat.)
These offerings are left for the moon to claim
structuring in them eternal patterns
(as were formed in us when the rites were ours)
that impart machine wisdom,
a constant drone about rhythms:
that which turns in darkness,
turns then again to the light.