Oft I dwell upon the waters of the bay:
sometimes a shimmering reptilian green
resembling the smooth skin of some wondrous snake
that slowly undulates from shore to shore.
At other times the waters seem
like the hide of some crocodilian,
a duller green, steely with peaks and edges,
lying in wait, mischief and mayhem in its brain.
And when the storm nears, the waters roil
with whitecaps, rising and falling
with impatience, seemingly frightened
and frightening, its smoky gray face wrenched by the winds.
Winter tries hard to thicken the waters to crystal,
but rarely succeeds because of the briny brew,
the constant plaiting of waves, the dance of the tides,
countervailing winds, the plowing vessels.
The waters of the bay: never are they without motion,
like glass tinted blue, a mirror for clouds, for vessels
cruising the face of the deep; rarely are they so still
as the mellowness of prayers at matins or vespers.
* * *
(c) Gregory V Driscoll 2012