Oh how we preen ourselves
in our profundity. Such
pompous little gits we are.
In a balsa-framed coracle,
scudding across the bay,
sits an imp wearing autumn leaf colours,
holding the sail-line pouched with wind.
The dip and pull of liquid balanced
against the stretched jest of canvas,
his mouth cracks with such delight
in the dexterous fingers that tense
and flex at each elemental nuance.
Amongst the interplay
of brain, bone and brawn,
he imagines himself to hold
the harness of Poseidon's flagship,
or some other godlike powers.
To the ladies watching from shore
he and his craft appear
as a pinpoint splinter
in the silky slide of tides.