On An Evening in April

The water, the distant buildings, the small boats nestled in their own reflections, all seem captive to a still that has settled the evening, paused in a lull between breaths. There is no wind to crease the surface or send a tremor through the trees - the only movement is the gentle drift of a thought towards meaning sleeping somewhere beneath the quiet. At times I have come close to its place of rest, felt its presence edged around a hollow as you would with someone sunk deep in the soft comfort of a bed. I reach out but what was there has gone leaving nothing except an imprint, an indented space, still warm in the arms of an April evening.