Late in the Day
Late in the day
fluffy white cloud looms overhead
resembles a huge ship
floating in the sky.
Boat in lake
father trying to fish
son occupied with maneuvers.
Sunshine has that
golden glow
it gets late in the day
seems to dazzle the object it touches
like King Midias' touch
everything is turned to gold.
Father and son continue to argue
father wants to fish
son wants to paddle
cloud is slowly absorbed
into the tree line.
Boat disappears too
but debate continues
long after the boat fades.
Another aboral ship floats into view
carrying its cargo of mystic
guilded by late evening rays.
Father gives up
pulls line in
tells jokes about the one
that got away
all is forgiven.
Tall willows like centurions guard the shore
a new cluster of vapor
like a float in a parade
moves across the sky
changing shape
as the wind exerts its force
changing color as
sun changes its perspective.
Lake’s surface is calm
but unsettled
a wash board
each tiny wave brings a message
lapping against
forgotten driftwood
that lays across the shore.
Soon to be
fodder for a fire
igniting stories about
creepy creatures
or perhaps just friendly conversation.
Pieces of driftwood gather
like old friends,
waves lap up against them
making such a sweet sound
so relaxing and soothing
I close my eyes
and listen;
in the distance a
lonely goose cries out for company
other birds join in
adding depth to the song.
Waves move in opposite directions
some to the right
some to the left
I get slightly dizzy
watching this opposing movement,
putting me in a trance
deepened by the breeze
that flows up across my face.
Styrofoam cup lays motionless
on the bank
a simple reminder of mans
intrusions.
The breeze, the waves,
sound of these creatures,
driftwood waiting on the bank.
Together they have all the answers
I seek.
The breeze is the spirit
that ignites my soul.
the waves are
interruptions in life
sometimes small, unnoticed
sometimes destructive,
but always a part of the lake.
The sounds are the melodies
that pattern my life
always there,
always repeating
but never exactly the same.
Driftwood, my excess
that is left behind,
there is use for everything
and everything has a purpose.
The parade is over now
the sun retreats for another day
father and son have
loaded up the boat
the waves
continue lapping into the night.
LarryB 9.3.01
Email: Night.Writer@lycos.com
