The weathered gray planks of the dock
are fringed by thorny rugosas,
with flat white and pink roses
that cling to the washed-out bank.
The late sun is hot on our shoulders
as we listen to the slapping of the water
against the pilings and the rough stones
that step down into the high tide.
As the sun drops behind us, as the rays
now come across the land, across
the thin line of house, the light
changes little by little.
Now nearly parallel to the surface
the light strikes the white boats
and the white sails that flutter.
Everything is struck blind.
We hold our breath for the moment
of shining canvas, gleaming paint,
and the houses reflecting across the bay,
until the day dives into its hiding place.