Wednesday, December 16, 2020

As the Fishes Swim Away

Maybe the surfers can give him answers.
In the distance they look like the three wise men.
But the language they speak is a mystery,
And he knows only that they want to be
One with the waves, that they are specialists 
An inconsolable distance away.
What's inside their wetsuit hoods he cannot say
As they can’t know his specialism of one.

Low tide is long blue sheet, a mirror,
And across it, from a distance, walk black 
Figures on top of the sky, but to him
Come only hellos and stingy offerings
Of praise for what is painfully gorgeous.
He wants to be loved, yes, by them, but there
Is always so much more to be acquired,
And he is always more than he is treated.

The seagulls stand like priests against the tide,
Contemplating, as he does, food, but maybe
Also something more ephemeral,
Ethereal. In groups, they are alone 
Except for one disconsolate crowing.
They too blacken as the sunlight moves on
And fly to no observable island.
Maybe they'll disappear. Perhaps they're not real.

The sky is scratched, but not beyond repair.
The dragon wing trails that ride the horizon
Are temporary. The clouds so ominous
A moment before turn a fragile pink.
The dark water folds to the golden sand.
It's with utter kindness the door is closed.
The answer he sought was always in the dark.
The only light it needed was his own.