(Stromboli) (Sicilia 34)

the small rush of tide is black.
it is not night, nor has the light
rushed home to the west behind the volcano.
the sea wishes it could be clear
but when churning over black silt
that’s what you get.
it’s the bony of the beach.
it’s the tar of the water.
thick, milkshaking, with no escape.

a day spent alone here could
quite possibly be a year.
who knows what she does when I’m gone.
but my guess is she turns over
frequently collapsing, and
marches on whether I gaze there or not.
with her jungle darkness of ripples
I can see the panther. but right now
she is a calm pussycat looking to be pet.
and I’ve never liked avoiding doing that, simply by fur colour.