the ocean before rain
must have a name
for the light that falls
won’t fall again.
An ocean’s afternoon
is composed of flashes: light and heat.
Waves disperse rays, glint, smile
at Helios bathing in pastel blue.
On the other side of water,
cobalt waves of tarpaulin
sheave rusting roofs of seaside slums.
Protecting bored metal sheets,
they colorfully face the sun’s silken stabs
and flirt their color with a quiet sea.
Wet with light,
the skeins of shivering gold
blotch, streak, blot; an unknown art.
In an afternoon softly moving,
Shots of neat rain drizzle
then thud like heavy serpents.
Beautiful in a settling chaos,
the water is an unreflective blur.
The tarpaulins rage, for rain and ocean
are all over each other.
Helios sleeps behind granite clouds,
and the sound of rain on rusting roofs
is a little terrifying, a little comforting.
Past granite shores, and granite eyes
the fight becomes a dance,
and soon the clouds go on their way.
The ocean after rain
must have a name,
for the light that laughs
is not the same.
Note: Image sourced from Alena Aenami’s Artstation portfolio.