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.
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