White Air

My white boat with its
white sails sails
serenely on the
calmest seas of aquamarine the
pebbles at the bottom
all the way down
clearly seen, and I loll
in my bow, trailing
my hand in the glassy
water, the sun
hot, the air still but
moving enough
to propel - this is
true living: this
circling white peace
in a calm bay
in a particular day with a
particular place to go
that you can see
when you
take the trouble to turn
and look - but for now
it's a holiday season
as the mind trawls
the reason for breathing
and scything. The sun is
everything and the air
feeds the lungs with
necessary particles seasoning
the heart and soul. Thus
the traveller is consoled, thus
the traveller circles in
pure happiness and
pure peace - at ease
with his own self
and no other voice
at last: splice the
mainbrace he grins
as he lolls and
chins the air, letting his
long white hand trail
lazily there. This
is the life, unspliced,
unspiced, just
calm and white
and circling in
a bay he found
hardily and long  -
but he recognised it
when he came along and
stayed, hoping the
rough sea would subside
and the sun shine -
and it did, and the
air sweet and his
heartbeat and his
spirit in song.

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