I recall their ancient look –
a fez tasselled with weed,
or a light in a black cage
buttoned into the ocean;
and that instant of pause when,
rounding one, going about
in a sizzle of foam, the boat
has not yet gathered way
again, or got the bone
between its teeth. But then
as it sets to, braces itself,
tautens, heels to the wind,
the sudden sense of lift,
of an altogether new
exultation fine as spindrift.

unpublished poem, © Lawrence Sail 2012, used by permission of the author

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