Containment lines are none the worse for wear.
Tide has turned and she was not washed to sea.
Save for watermarks, she’s all in good repair.
With the swell came contentment’s remedy.
At tide’s turning the surge has been subdued.
The rhythmic waves have left her satisfied.
Diminishing ripples resolve her mood.
She savours the last splash while things subside.
There’ll be no rush of outward-tide; no haste.
Embraced in slow-resolve, just as supposed.
She awaits her resolution; slow-paced.
She is reassembled; again composed.
. As would appear, her pleasures come in waves;
. for every pleasure spent, so too she saves.
© Tim Grace, 1 October 20133
To the reader: Mostly, her interests are absorbed by daily routine. The satisfaction of orderly progression keeps her occupied; and on the whole content. Once in a while, when momentum allows, she stops to pause; to recalibrate her sense of self. She loosens the fabric of her day. The touch of reconnection is slow and satisfying; emptiness is resolved.
To the poet: Of two minds, I was watching a small row-boat tugging on its rope by the shore; a ripple of waves repeatedly lapped at its sides. Short of giggling, the nicely-shaped boat did what it could to hold its dignity but every now and again, in shear delight, it shuddered with relief as the rhythm of waves washed away it tension. Art is a beautiful thing.