Varied as any flock, these islanders 
are yet never far from one view.

On the horizon
it may be dragons they look out for
and the dull clunk of bells they hear
from where the sun has other business.

Looking out on these changeful waves 
always the same, the same
fascinates the islander
just as the ever evolving curls
of the beloved's shining
shining hair.
And looking out, to these warm-lit minds,
is looking in. Understand both
fortify the heart.

And lovingly, they call their patch of sky 
the eye of the storm. If you wonder 
how long good fortune can last, you're called
to know more than chance sustains the outlook.

Never far from a common view
nevertheless these islanders
come to blows among themselves.
The theme repeats, so blights my history 
little more is needed to end it.