27 May 2014

Slow Waking

In the deep dark of first morning
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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