Mike Keating - The Boy Who Craved the Ocean lyrics

Of a boy. Who, when young, disdained games on the shore, Stood transfixed by the swell. Too young for confusion, reached in and touched peace, Frightened and stung by the spray - ran away, Crying. On the edge of the sea, sees a rising man lift the ocean, Dark and light, tall as the sky, raging with fury of waves and cold winds. Cloaked in spray and hurling torrents, Striding with thunder; falling back to the spray. A boy, expecting noise and splash - hearing none, His mind, impelled by the sea, Whips away, springing as spray to the deep. Body dragging to follow, again the man rising, Driving, thrusting, his fists to the cliff. On the beach calling, embracing, and falling, Hitting the pebbles his mind is thrown free, into the sea, Dancing twisty-turny with the ocean children. Then came the growing years. In a bare and cold world, A world of straight movement. Driven by sharpness. Of a boy. Who, adult, disdained numbers, precision. Craved softness and calmness. Sought, without knowing, the deepest places the ocean children themselves do not know. Stumbling across a field in a nightstorm, Shrinks from crashes, dark and light. From the cliff, casting mind and more to the spray, Is drawn in. Sinking, cradled by currents. Nothing lies harsh underneath. Deep fire lifts a new island to air, silently, slowly, calmly insisting, disdaining the force of land birth. Slipping further, a skier down mountains Between rocks, through forests But no sound. No wind. Carried silently, gently, warmly, until turbulence below, jerking and jolting, Unpleasant and harsh after calm. White water, splashing upwards, Rapids on a river. Through swirling water he is falling, not sliding, Falling into white water. Falling further and faster it hurts, cuts his face. Flailing for a hand hold - finds none, Finds cold, Cold, as wind hits him Slapping away the last of the water Choking and breathing, feeling more than cold wind, Conscious of damp, wet. Soaking. An airbound condition. Falling further, light whitening. Cloud greying. Dark grey, he is shivering, black comes. Dark. Lit. Black. Rolling thunder tipping him down. Lightening blinding as he drops, From the cloud to the mud of the field. Of a man. Who, cast out, lies face down in a storm, Drained of colour with grey eyes, raises from the earth. Lifted by sky-wide cymbals, flings his fists up and thrusts Towards clouds. Of a man. Reaching into the storm, flings his arms outwards, And of the whole storm, impelled into him. The lights snap out. The silence in that single second deafens.