Noon Ritual

The dead time,

they say,

by any reckoning.

But this sun,

a granite block,

slams into

the eye of the land:

splinters,

golden vision.

The ribs of the bay

rise, fall,

and a black, crusted arm

reaches

for the waist

of a flirty tide.

Limpets batten down.

Gulls ruminate,

at last

throw back their heads:

utter

acclamation.

             David Redfield

 

© David Redfield, Utter (The Hawthorn Press, 2010)