Sightings

poetry

a small boat presses
firm into the bay,
fervent as palms
honest parishioners
set to prayer.

and all around, periwinkle
dawn has not yet detached
itself from the sea beyond,
horizon indiscernible.

forever does not seem long,
or so far, or so terrible
above a silvery morning,
untouched by the groan
and churn of daybreak.

inside the little grace of tea
from a thermos and a tin
of sugared butter biscuits
is the quiet revival of soul,

once more, as the terns call
overhead and the grey scent
of oil off the dirty city streets
grows sweet when the sky lifts

and the water is left
to smell of bull kelp.

and as the hired deckhands
are busy rubbing last night
from long-sunken eye sockets,
a youth still full of dreaming
asks, do you think
maybe today…?

which makes the elder smile,
looking about while raising sails,
and reply,

maybe…