Sewing the Sea
Fishing for water, sewing the sea, you sit at your ease on a swept and beaten quay, passing no heed to ticking time nor tide nor in the distance, me.
And shimmering on the water is your joy; the sunlight’s speckle bobbing your face, settling like stardust in your golden hair’s embrace.
All happening in this moment – not that you seem to notice, and not that you seem to care; for you are at labour, lost within your working world, just another day’s laissez-faire:
your legs swaying to the freedom of the water’s flow and flair, its splashes freckling the day’s outlook, 22