Late Afternoon,
A Coruna, Spain
The secret world of the sea
Is appliquéd with a flux of silver.
Waves push the spume
Against black hills.
In the foreground, on the terrace,
The laundry dries.
Each hidden fish and octopus and crab
Is a commonplace unto itself,
As are we.
Each moment the mood of the bay
Rearranges its personality
Yet remains.
Last night,
In the orange light,
A cargo boat
Slowly rocked through the widening harbor
Into the ocean
On its mundane, romantic journey.
On the headland, across the bay,
The Tower of Hércules lighthouse
Shines into the Atlantic
As it has since Roman times.
We are here for a short, few days.
Wrapped in a yearning
Pink Floydian loss of innocence,
Carving the sand for meaning.
Or is the analyst absent,
Unnecessary, and we,
Are mysteriously arranged to be,
In the secret world of the sea.
By Paul John Roach