Fyn's 21 Days of Poetry

Watered Silk

Enveloped in liquid silk,
I float in aquamarine waters
warmed by the equitorial sun.
Suspended, weightless,
looking up at an undulating sky.
The hull of the dive boat is a grey-green cloud
on my watery horizon. Precisely the color
of arguementative sky clouds. Yet no thunder,
only the sound of my breathing
punctuated by the burble of air bubbles.
Yet no lightening, only the darting
flash of yellow sennet.

Swimming, lazy legged fins propell me
past irridescent corals as the chorus of Calypso
swims in my mind. Parrot fish, brilliant azur blue and white
cavort with clownfish. Oft called the screwdrivers of the deep--
vodka and orange juice in a tropical seaweed glade.

Sea urchins bat their spines as a puffer bloats by.
I glide in a different direction as diffused sunlight
entangles with graceful and shimmering tentacles
of a jelly fish; only those long streamers give its secret away.

Tide is indifferent here, yet time is air.
Sixty minutes to inhale visions; conjure mermen.
Indigo grotto tempts; secret caves and treasure thoughts
swiftly abandoned--I am unwilling to tempt
the barracuda at the gate.

Surface shimmers rainbow to blue as I surface.
Off in the distance, purple dolphins leap graceful:
my heart aches for them to fly near. They have charted
a different course, and mine leads me back to land.
Clumsy footed I stroll beneath palms,
watching diamonds in another sea.