A boat. Tides in the canal.
Not quite salty. Not quite fresh.
You have a weakness for such boats.
Narrow. Small. Oars in waiting.
You are reminded of being young.
Strong arms. Strong heart,
sure of your indestructability,
certain you could row the ocean.
The boat’s hull is glassy blue.
A perfect laquer, smooth enough
the water passes under it like magic.
The small bit of decking is finished natural,
gleaming teak shines in the sun,
rich with color and evocative of another age.
You linger. Letting your youth seep in your pores,
in your soul. You get an urge,
something familiar to you,
to step into the narrow craft and set the oars
for open water.
But you do not. No thievery for you.
not today. You simply stand and steal
the soul of the sea
and make it your own.
About this poem
I am of an age where almost everything reminds me of something else, something past. That can be bad, and it can be very, very good indeed. Mostly it is good, which makes me think I have lived a good life. Or at least a lucky one.
The picture was taken in Venice.