This fall’s
first day of loom.
Water warmer
than the air.
A thin
layer,
warmed by contact,
a lens,
bending light
over the horizon,
magnifying
whatever lies beyond its limb.
Distant ships,
land,
float mirage-like
just above the edge of the sea
sawtoothed,
crenelated by loom of far-off waves.
Headlands appear taller
then break up into
blips and blobs reflected,
surrounded,
top and bottom, by
bright, light sky.
Antonio Dias, 10.06.10
An excerpt from the poem, Loom.