In a cove where the pebbles were polished with sighs,

Lived a Stoat with a voice like the wind in disguise.

He sang every dusk to the murmuring tide,

Of a ship that had vanished, a love that had lied.

His whiskers were tuned to the pull of the moon,

And his tail kept the time like a sorrowful tune.

The gulls brought him gossip, the crabs brought him tea,

But none knew the name of the song or the sea.

Oh sing, little Stoat, to the foam and the spray,

To the kelp-covered dreams that have drifted away.

Your melody lingers where barnacles cling,

The sea doesn’t answer, but still you sing.

He wore a small coat stitched with seaweed and thread,

And a hat that grew lichen when moonlight was shed.

He hummed to the stars and he crooned to the reef,

To the echo of joy and the shadow of grief.

One night came a wave with a voice of its own,

It whispered, “Your song is the shape of a stone.”

The Stoat bowed his head, but he sang just the same,

For the sea had no memory, only a name.

So sing, little Stoat, though the tide may forget,

Though your verses are tangled in sea-scented net.

The salt bears your sorrow, the wind wears your tune,

And your song will outlast even sun and monsoon.