By Gray Davidson
It's like a ghost…
Or a silhouette, blocking sunlight,
But only seen from below the water's surface.
Something at least about it puts the mind away,
In the frame of the supreme…the supernatural.
The stride is simple, long, graceful.
At this distance, a watcher can see
Long legs…gazelles, pass each other,
In a measured, unhurried race.
The triangle of sunlight, equilateral,
Then only a vertical line of brilliantly outlined flesh.
And the triangle, widening to repeat the cycle.
Around these pillars of darkened space,
The wind of her passage moves the screen.
Prism. The flame-distorted air.
White it is, to let pass the suns light and form the halo.
But has a strange textile amoebance of its own.
Shades her steps completely,
A rippled water surface,
The descending foot touches that surface,
Is Resisted, the dark line of muscle connects
The dark line of the solid earth,
Angles change, arms sway, hair is lifted by sun-warmed zephyrs.
The purest unfaded unearthly light.