Ex nihilo

The Solent

Now, yachts launch into the flow.

Then they catch the larboard

And their sales paunch with light.

 

There are bows full of salt.

Fish quiver in the imagination.

 

Everything is this and that, and there, a lazy

Dart across a veer.

They must be slewing.

 

Weekend captains throw ropes about the breeze.

The horizon is a vernacular compass.

 

That which drives them drafts the

Sea into glass cavalries.

 

They have come to save

Invigoration from routine.

They have come to shout

The glory of lux on wave

In savagely civilized languages.

 

This is how to sail across a Sunday.

 

(C) N J Green