The waves are raucous at night, like they're
trying harder to make up for a lack of blue
against white. What there is of sky is more
the colour of absence- of sleeping eyes from
the inside- than the colour of a destined life.
My feet are operating like Newton's cradle:
rocking from heel to toes, from lurching legs
while trousers billow, while weather undulates-
(it's recording emotion; it's mourning imprecision).
All ghosts of clouds gather around the lamps
that line the promenade. They descend for eyes,
meeting glances with misty breath like passers-by.
And I ponder (as the meeting of the cold and
my skin creates a cloak between me and the
wind) whether I've ever stared through nightfall
without the moon resembling your eyes and the
stars resembling mine- all at the height that future's
lovers look up to and from which all weather falls.
S. Rankin
My Mirrored Pool of Thought
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."
~Henry Ellis
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