the bench builds into the deck
wood stained red - invade the nose
cedar shakes merge
their odor fights the deck
the chair blends into the deck
pillows wait to be saved
from the waiting rain
sun soaked clouds
gray the sky
permit the sun to creep
through these chinks
splashing somber waters
tinkling to the dock
rising as the tide
she calls from the studio
below beyond words tickle
my words whistle the wind
these eyes glancing off
the sheets of glass
reflect the scene
I climb below the deck, my roof
now in this upper floor
sanctuary splashed with art
I scan the walls
This is it, she says
are you ready?
No - I will never be.
It is time to go.
slow walk to the pier
as the ferry lumber up
I watch the island fade
so fade my joy
I am off to this foreign
land to die - an island
in the setting sun
©2008 Thomas R Thomas
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