Not from doubt, but choice and fear.
In case existence is unknowable,
But hoping we can find it still, given space.
Our cold fingers touching in the vegetable terraces
Do not entirely reassure.
And seeing the joy of the seals around the island
Still doesn't solve the conundrum.
Not: Why do we exist? What is for?
Its purpose, or ours, were we given it?
If so, what before/set it in motion/donated it?
If so, how did the before exist?
No, we the troubled, on our wave-dashed lonely rock ask ourselves
And if we may so, ask you.
What is it, this existence? Is it the song of a bird perhaps?
Or the hurt and and love the shore feels for the sea?