He is not the only one with greasy black fingers,
sun bleached hair.
The summer swelter awaiting the arrival of fish and money.
He sits perched on the edge of his vessel,
contemplating the mysteries of the sea.
The way the clocks turn in harmony
with the passage of time.
The way the docks lift and sink twice daily
but the sun never hides.
Somehow,
Green sundogs and flickering magnetic clouds
Means time does still turn.
It turns towards the softest alpenglow
Her beauty --
The mountain.
There is no limit to Her and to us. We look to ourselves
But we only see Her.
Our fingers ache from the work with the bounties She provides.
Salt stained and hazy eyed
We are drunk on fish.
Silver flecks, hooked bones projected on the surface of a shallow passage
Two deep oceans.
We are all just walking each other home.
Secure yourself to the edge of the sea in a thick black storm
and let Her pass through you to awaken to the most brilliant day.
A rebirth !
A glimpse of divinity !
Much like the sea, I sometimes sit in quiet radiance --
the gentlest thoughts drifting carried by
two knots
of velocity.
And sometimes,
Rage swells through porous rigid walls and beckons to signify
the presence of
sunken
golden
amulets.
We met at the cornerstone of the
Garden of the Sea.
And return there each night to pay homage to
Her pulsing black lungs.
