Between sound and silence, the bay cusps.
Before us the weighty hull of sea green
at our feet, where turns the last curl of water.
A somnolent overcast, our noontime neap.
It is where tides meet, barely audible.
One wave more would sound the surf’s arrival,
a shush building to a full-bodied overture.
Or a wave less we’d be listening to silence
the last slip of voiceless water withdrawn.
It is that moment, so too are we, the shore.
On the sundeck, I drift into a dream between us,
beloved widower beside me, tatting a scarf
from sunset. Knit one pearl two, over-under
we lose count, wave after wave after wave.
About the Poet
Ron Scully is a retired bookseller. After 25 years on the road, he has settled in the White Mountains to write haiku daily, and an occasional lyric poem. He has published worldwide in Japanese short-form poems and small literary magazines. He was scheduled to publish two chapbooks in 2020, Darlington Braves and Listening for Thirteen Blackbirds, from Atrium Books, but then the world changed. He is also working on a play and a sports literature anthology.
For the first time in nearly five years, Vita Brevis is closed for submission. Read the full story here.