yachts are blue

yachts
are colored blue
and white
their faces turned
into the wind

nothing in the rigging wires
but the whisper
of a foreshore breeze

the edge of the Bay
is lost out there
turned
without warning
into a cloud

a lonely boat
has passed beyond
the boundary
and from sail
to fly
in the grey distance

while here everything
is slowly moving
each wavelet
every ripple

bobbing masks
and wriggled snakes in the sand
made by the tide change
and in-coming waters


© Frank Prem, 2017

March 2017 Poem #16: the eye

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