poetry

Movement (working)

The land is fixed as the boat moves, sterile in the distance, in the dusk.

The waves are dark green and blue like capsicum leaves, jagged and random, and the setting sun carves a path in the bed as it follows the boat.

We scan for more Orca fins and recount the sightings. But now the light is fading and dims our prospects.

Something else done, an indulgence.

These journeys have costs and are borne by more than me. But time is an agent of compulsion.

The land is fixed as the boat moves, growing into a void and the blackness fills the waves.

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