They keep their heads bent to their tasks:
the peasant tilling at the field, and
the shepherd tending to his flock,
who glances heavenward
to track the moment of the sun
and count the last few golden hours of the day
with which to graze.
In the bay, sails filled with wind,
a ship approaches the setting sun,
the barrel-man in his crows-nest fixed upon the horizon,
heart heavy with the close of day
the the sight of home across the bay
while at its stern,
a plume of white disturbs the sea:
perhaps
the spray of a leaping pilot fish
or a puff of feathers marking the dive of some sea bird
or an unnoticed magic,
a boy who dared to fly
on wax-bound wings
too close to the sun’s golden light.
boats against the current 