Somewhere in the blue mist that the sea forms with the sky. Somewhere between the foams and the wet air, where idle boats yaw and sleeping men rest next to drying fish. Seeping out of the horizon – a slow and gentle murmur filling the room, a hushed, quiet dancing of ageless voices – the rocks appear. Stood for eons in their watery pomp are the markers for the island that I once called home.
The ship’s propellers churning the sea into white furrows behind, the only contrast against the stretching blue are these black and green, brown and red islets peaking from the sea Poseidon used to preen. We’re never close enough to feel them, never near enough to know them. They’re just figments, bold and blurred, lulling sweetly into the mind.
Heralded by the slop, slap, slipping quick washing waves. Fizzing and crinkling in saltsanded ears, their solidness wavers into being and wanes once more. Infirm and wispish they bleed back into obscurity as rapidly as they came into being.