An unrestrained hand shields newly-awakened eyes
from the glare of the glowing mid-day sun.
Upon the sand, a vaulted circle draws a crowd;
its plated husk of sun-bleached cockleshells
like the bone-white carapace of a long-washed up turtle.
Floating over the azure blue undercoat, a cool coruscation of light,
the allure of the watery shimmer
beguiles my young eyes into forsaking blindness.
And all around there is a silence...
He'd been at one with the whale-black,
rain-dappled, undulating skin of the sea.
His thunderous laughter had rebuked the waved lure
of worried fishermen silhouetted in grey.
Shrouded from the world by a silvery ring of mist —
the silence deafening —
I wait alone on a row-boat made of sand.
A row-boat made by his hand.