29 April 2019

By Philip Kuepper

Fingers of the wind played the sea,
like liquid keys of a piano.
There sounded a storm of music,
even, at times, a symphony turned insane.

Then came calm.
Shone the sun,
intense as a musician reading a sheet of music,
transferring the notes to memory.

The sails hung in a stillness
sticky as glue.
A gull flew
in slo-mo across our stern,
a baton with wings.

It seemed to set the music
to playing, again.  Came a wind.
The white keys of the sea
were worried into playing.

The sails snapped alive,
the concert begun.

(30 March 2019)