We are older than the sun and moon of course, it’s only us who are aware, have eye and voice to see and state time’s passing and think it matters. The kingfisher on the gate isn’t waiting to be let in. Doesn’t hear me say: “Come, come into my garden.” She eyes me blackly, shits and flies off. Made me smile though, to be visited by sweet Artemis, who’s as ignorant of time’s devices as the vacant sun and hollow moon. Bless her...
Your oh-so-distaste for Tribunes who incite the popular crowd, what are you protecting Cicero? Your ballsy support for the latest drone deployment in Thrace, what are you protecting Cicero? Your polite way with handlers and a word for the homeless, what are you protecting Cicero? Your dream of heroic iambs on the steps of the Capitol, what are you protecting Cicero? Your hosting of lavish dinner parties for the argentarii, what are you protecting Cicero? Your blood-clean sacrifices in the race for everlasting life, what are you protecting Cicero? Your corpse in a vault with a tag on your toe―too late, what were you protecting Cicero?
We look into the water, the absence of wind and swell has flattened its surface, so the low setting sun cannot bounce light into our eyes, there's a rare dullness that we can see ourselves in and to a few arm-lengths below. Our faces peak over the boat's rim like two cherubs looking into a well. Our bait, whole piper, wallow in the visible zone, swinging a lazy rhythm between two bobbing heads. Such tranquil sorrow where no tears are shed at the looming blackness of it all. Our view is narrowed, we don't see the cliffs flipped over, ascending from green to orange clay, to rocks above —a snapper torpedoes into the bait, a rod slams downwards, the line whizzes, the mirror smashed. We’re ejected from the sea and plonked back in our small boat, father and son, winding in the world we know.
Like a Connery I flower late, improving as the sunspots travel across my face, and more of my scalp shining in the moonlight. My act I've perfected, the parts I choose within my range, which is the trick of mastery. No one can resist my grin. Don’t pity me my limitations, I’ve enough to woo them still. The sun is warm and my plants are thriving in their Bahamas home.