After Neruda
You must be a chaos, to give birth to a dancing star – Nietzsche
Sandflies
coming up,
delicate as fishnet.
The water stands
fig-green in the hollows.
Clouds bunch
and thicken, the sea
turns the blue-black
of Seurat’s dog.
Bending low
to skim stones,
we watch the light breaking
on the swell,
like mackerel skin.
Turquoises in the shallows,
greens and blue-violets
in the troughs
with crimson points
at the crest;
and the dull orange
of seaweed floating
in the water.
In the white foam
not colours but light
at play. We blink
to see the changes;
laughing to have
the wind blow so hard,
and have all
the constellations
of the heavens
to ourselves.
