the cold immeasurable water
is a blue lamé
seduction slipped over the noontime sea
and the water lies uncut against the shore,
a whole piece.
From my table I watch the rock islands
like buoys anchored there in the light, and
I pick at my nails.
Drake sailed on a blue journey once—
it was summer—past our whitened shore,
our hills, our heat mounding up
colossi of fog beyond exploring
beyond climbing, and
his crew idled, too, and drowsed,
the interior slipping past.
© by Grace Hughes Chappell.
Used with the author’s permission.