It could be called piquant, the tang
left by a haystack once it’s dried.
The rain has dispersed. You breathe in.
It’s an indulgence that has you imagining tussock fire.
These vapours can only keep moving your atoms
in a quest for the ultimate condition.
You assay the tide’s fleet of shivers
around your legs and your mind. It’s soothing
to take in the coolness on light rays
turned in jade over your head. This is the start
of a journey, even though your shuffle
disturbs the outline of the current for an instant
then masquerades as an imprint
enmeshed among ancient silicates. All memories
have vanished. That’s apropos for a traveller giving in
to the night’s encouragement. It’s time to swim.
As you edge from the shore, the hills diminish.
Your shadow evanesces too, absorbed in ripples.
It’s easy to make ideas lucid, using a talent
to read the surface like a glut of clues.
Can a clone of a girl who ceased to exist
dream herself human again? Secluded in eddies
that your thrashing assembles, you sing. The hush in a vortex,
you’re harmonic to gulls that comb melodies from the Tasman.
About The Author
Gregory Dally has had fiction, poetry and other material published in various journals, including Meanjin, Popshot Quarterly and Scrittura.
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