by Diane Fahey
A smoke-cloud grows from the horizon,
changes the sun to a full moon
gimletting the glare.
I walk into gusts and gulfs of air, watch
the windsurfers angle their crafts
on racing foam. Sails with the look
of stained glass panels, butterfly wings,
swivel and tack in their double element —
a horizontal soaring.
One tosses upwards
then flattens to a line on water.
Further out, blue sails spiral on inky green
towards the lighthouse. I listen to surf,
the swish of marram, take one last look
at gulls swooping backwards, the movement
of quills on a scribble of white,
then turn home.
Last updated January 14, 2019