Indian Summer.

by Adrian Brooks

Sometimes it seems we’re swimmers, adrift
and, so, guided ashore by moonlight alone.
Strange creatures cast up by midnight tides,
we’re borne on phosphorescent currents
but, once submerged, plumb caverns.

Treasures intact, we resurface on dark water
in a darker night- the zones of ocean or wind
indistinguishable, yet much more mysterious
for our attempts to unravel radial emanations.
Between us, nothing is absent; less left foreign.

Only nuance, a soughing silence seems apparent:
a non-invasive code whereby to sense sea change,
the miniscule cues in which we translate ourselves-
each to each- incarnate, then, through such efforts,
all of which only bring me up to Now.

How long have we loved one another this way?
How far since an ocean alluded to alien coasts?
How deep this sea with its pearls? its sunsets?
How high the moon or its guarantees of dawn?
I ask fathoming only what I find when cast away
to moor again in you.






Adrian Brooks (b.1947) is a poet, novelist and non-fiction writer.
He is also a playwright, a theater artist and a world traveler.
For more information see: adrianbrooksblog.blogspot.com

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