Dusk
From the moment of the tide,
there is always a question: what will come next? Sea drifts and a child wanders
alone barefoot. Bending coconut trees
seem curious to look where the water drops below the horizon. Bright fish seem
to sparkle beneath the shallows. And along
comes a curious token of memory, a boat with a host of small fishermen, scoping
out the shores for elves.
“I’m here,” says the little boy. “I
want a fish!”
The men wave and smile. What a
cute little boy, playing in the sand on the shore.
They speed along and out.
Where’s his mother? He runs home swiftly,
and then greedily tells her all he has seen, especially the men in the boat.
They were so cool, and spectacular, but had no time to play with him.
“That’s OK,” his mother tells him.
“There’s always tomorrow.”
Speak, memory: There’s always tomorrow.
And tomorrow was all there ever was.
The moon illuminates hotly the glassy
bay that evening, and speaks of a quickening in its legendary art above the
mantle shelf in the living room..
