Musings

A sky powder-blue on the horizon,
indigo at its zenith. Along the bridge
those with a line into the not-too-deep
watch through beaded glass a stone underworld
shadowed by kelp trees, squads of minnows,
haul up coppery wigs strung with nylon.
This hour's sea is a divan: out from the shore,
figures lounge, half-sunk, in metal chairs.
As if set there as an installation,
banquettes of bladderwrack jut from the wall,
offering rest to sea-giants. I wade,
half-water, half-flesh. Scribbles of boat oil
sway on the tide as daydreaming fingers
stir circles, summon poems.