In a Harbour That poignant abolition of time —Jean Cocteau, Past/Tense This morning, the sky is washed clean. We drag about our shadows taking on the warmth of the coast, same as crickets in the dunes. Life becomes a costume. Beauty, it turns out, simply an accident. And art—an object difficult to pick up. Here the sunlight hangs in the air, like pollen. The water in the bay is so clear the yacht seems suspended in midair. The purple sail reflects on the waves, like blood on water. The boat is moored safe, shallow in the low tide. And love and time come towards us without any hurry, and stay. Kris Spencer
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