Achilles Point

Knowing they would be perfect for weaving, the flax leaves have tried to put the blue into a basket.
The sea is too joyous and will not be contained. It runs out laughing through the channel and does not stop to take stock of the time.
I would fly out too, soaring above, but there is wax on my heart wings and the sun shows no partiality.

Is no respecter of persons.


Look - a festive heart crossing the bays, cutting a straight path.
Set for safe ferry shore to shore, this vessel of people I know and have never met.
A red ark with a white thread wake to follow.

Without shadow or variation of turning.


Delight comes to the careful shore hugger. The neck of the sea meets the sand and is draped with lacy gems.
No eye sees the deep channels in the rock from which these jewels are mined.
The lapping floor is buoyant as it sings in polished reflection.
If this is my Achilles heel, I will dance on it.

For I would gladly be considered a fool.

(*I took the photos at Achilles Point, where I spent the afternoon.)