BLACK CLOUD

Peering through binoculars
at a yacht rounding a wreck site
he sees a man step to the stern
then a woman emerges from below.
A silent theatre in the round.
He tries to imagine their conversation.
She could be a self-taught navigator
her horizon limitless because
she doesn't want to linger alone
regret mistakes, grow old, and worse.
Let's face it, all journeys must end.
She has brewed coffee in their cosy galley
and when they drop anchor tonight
she might rest her head on his shoulder.
He will smell her hair, light a cigarette
lay his hand on her warm hip.
Lowering the binoculars he sees
a black cloud scudding their way
shadowing the water which trembles.

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