Lulled in a nook of North West Bay, 
The water swells against the sand, 
Hardly more liquid than Venetian glass, 
In which clear surface, just a little way 
From shore, some four or five petite yachts pass 
With languid ease, apparently unmanned, 
Adrift along the day, 
Imagining a breeze to fan 
Their motion, though there's none. Siobhan 
Reaches a giant hand down from the sky 
And nudges with insouciant élan 
The nearest hull, her bended waist mast-high. 
That hand is just as magically withdrawn. 
So moves the catamaran. 
And through the Lilliputian fleet 
She, Beatrice and Gabrielle 
Wade in the shallows, knee-deep, spaceman-slow, 
To fashion their maneuvers and compete 
Among the stationed hours to and fro, 
While watching through the viscid slide and swell 
Of water their white feet, 
Made curiously whiter by 
That cool light-bending element. 
Doubled by shadows on the sand they glimpse 
Pipefish and darting fingerlings they try 
Impossibly to grab, translucent shrimps 
Among the laceweed, seahorses intent 
To flee the peopled sky. 
Hard to conceive that they should be 
Precisely who they are and here, 
Lost in the idle luxury of play. 
And hard to credit that the selfsame sea 
That joins them in their idleness today, 
Careless of latitude and hemisphere, 
Blind with ubiquity, 
Churns elsewhere with a white uproar, 
Or wipes the Slave Coast clean of trees, 
Or sucks among the scum and floating drums 
Of some forgotten outpost founded for 
The advent of an age that never comes, 
Or bobs the remnants of atrocities 
Limply against the shore. 
What luck they have. And what good sense 
To leave the water with their toys 
When called, before their fortunes are deranged. 
And still the day hangs in its late suspense 
For hours without them, virtually unchanged, 
Until the bay's impregnable turquoise 
Relaxes its defense 
And sunset's dye begins to spread 
In flood across it to the sand 
They stood on, as though, hoping to disown 
The blood of all the innocents he'd shed, 
Macbeth incarnate or his grisly clone 
Had stooped on some far shore to rinse his hand, 
Making the green one red.





