In the Beginning was the Word, of sadness and of pain
The Plan was being born out of the agony of creativity,
Huge chunks were ripped from off the land, and flung into the main
To become islands in the sea.

And voyaging across the world, with neither flag nor freight,
Through eras, epochs, eons as years and centuries roll,
A hermit and a vagabond, each island made its fate
But kept the mainland soul.

In the Beginning was the Word but the words all ran out,
And sailors already inhabiting the oceans wide,
Rushed onto the islands up the gangplanks with a shout
Naming them ships in their pride.

But the mainland holds tightly, with a grip faster than death,
And the islands will come home again for sure.
While winds of the ocean prevail in every breath,
The ships keep mainland honour and law.

Will the scientists forgive us, for this beguiling metaphor
And our liberal interpretation of the theory?
But if there was any first word on Earth, and came before,
That word was almost certainly the "Sea".