At distance, mirrored pane of oiled glass.
But close to shore the rhythmic wavelets pass
And break, a gently rolling, foaming band,
Onto a weed-specked stretch of crimson sand
As weary bodies flop onto a bed
And hands drop clasped and still behind the head.
Strange colours that seem only real in dreams.
A cinematic overfade of scenes
From blue and white, to deep, unearthly reds,
A hint of green ; a mauve storm cloud embeds
Itself on back-dropped orange glow.
And is that what they mean by “indigo” ?
Silhouetted tamarisk, a stony arm
Projecting, keeping fishing boats from harm
Black painted by a bacchic fiery sky
With purple galleons adrift on high
Wind-whipped to metaform as imaged shades
In quiet darkness as the moment fades.
My photographic vigil forced to end
As, stumbling in the gloom, I now ascend
To hear the voices of the linnet sellers
And taste on humid air the market smells.
White-veiled schoolgirls take their bags of fish
To peaceful evening at home, and dream their wish.