Bay is wet-cement -
just poured,
the lapping scallop-ridges formed
as mortar displaces
and spreads
like so many thirst-questing tongues.
Shine-gleaming too,
reflecting sudsy sky near shore
where weed has drift-deposited spume-debris.

Out on the pewter bay,
black swan necks Loch Ness monster out
like so many dark pinkies
crooked
while taking fine, porcelain tea.

A kayak slips in,
old man of the sea, soft-paddling.
He seems so Zen,
he beaches,
then climbs arthritic-careful
out.
Sun-flap-hat kind of kindergarten
as are striped pigeon grey and white polo,
mid-thigh standard-blue bathers.
He plop-plods across littoral, comes back battling
slap-flapping poled sail,
he fuddle-fiddle-hoists rising archangel-sail,
each action a ritual -
Tai Chi-style
while white wing embraces and caresses,
encouraging: Hurry,
                                 ah, please,
hurry,
the wind is soooo.... delicious.