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published
in qarrtsiluni,
Jul–Aug 2006
Lines
that
was what
was
needed, so
you
said. And
you
smiled a thin
and
final line,
and
you turned,
as
they say,
on
your heel,
on
a sixpence,
and
you strode,
straight-limbed,
along
the
coastal path,
direct,
unswerving,
to
the jetty, walked
its
slick rectangle
to
where the ferry
tugged
its moorings.
Just
in time:
the
straining lines
released,
the cables
stowed,
the ferry
drove
a silver
track,
straight as
a
rail, towards
a
flat horizon. And,
as
I watched
unmoving,
you
slipped
at last
around
the slow
unyielding
curve
of
the world.
Dick Jones
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Jones’
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