the colours lie:
plum purple for grass;
an oil-slick-black sea,
with mirrored-moon eyes glinting
as they open and close
on the undulating swell beneath.
Your boat bobs and weaves,
your hand in the water,
dredging up dreams.
Slack halyards slap and slap,
as the pendulum swing of the boat lulls you.
Head heavy, you're half-anchored, betwixt and between.
Sails down, you drift,
not wanting ever to reach
the solid inevitability of land.
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