I cannot tell.
I only feel the gentle swaying swell
of the waves beneath my feet
and hear the billowed sails that snap
like sheets on a line. Are there eight?
Maybe nine? I start to count
but am lost in delight as the wind-capped waves
meet blue sky bright. Spume, clouds, sails –
soft as cotton or down, the sky in a bowl
and the world upside down and the wind
rushing free and the bend of dark trees and
the roofs of red tiles and the sense of good
miles still before me today.
I don’t know what to say.