Taste

A breach in the storm, the sun
a fist of light against the indigo dark,
the sea a skin sharply shiny and black,
savouring a sudden flood of outlines
blazing into focus.
On shore, along the wind-slapped reeds,
this mind running and still
on a just redrawn heart of things,
the shattering, centering taste
of the here-and-now.

And later, in a season of stillness,
air in a motionless damp swarm,
the here-and-now on routine patrol
enjoying the simple habit of
walking the whole length of the pier,
feet filled by the stone, step by step,
until the square platform facing
an abeyance of ripples, the stare
of a bottomless breath enveloping
horizon and wishes like a silk scarf.