Boat time poem

Boat time is not like clock time.
The forceful tremor of the swell
is all in the ebb, and the headbutt
of a half-tyre forehead on the stone wall.

This grey road has uncertain camber.
It has plasticity, and yield. Time
tastes of iodized salt: crystalline
white, pale pink and gray in colour.

The wind folds its wing over the surface
Like a mother dove with her brood;
and the little beaks and backs, the
white feathers fumble in the nest.