Dusk on Plasson's
worn and weathered
beard;
The painter on the shore
that does not know
time.
The white canvas;
ochre spot,
scattered,
top corner.
A footprint
in the
sand,
a mark
from a dance
of
collected moments.
Say the sea,
Plasson.
He must
lose
everything
to find it
all.
The ship
sailing through
the horizon,
with its stories
and the words.
The words.
Say the sea,
Plasson.
"Tatatum,
tatatum,
tatatum, "
and the storm,
unveiled.
"Splash, "
and the settling.
The silence
and its blessing.
Have you got it clear?
I have been waiting
for years.
C'est fini.
And the Almayer Inn
awaits his easel
and aching back,
but the ocean sea
will wait for
his blank canvas
and the ochre spots
that mark the beginning
and the end.