I make my boys stand in the wind
and look at the ocean
unhinging itself over and over.
I tell them that among the waves craving
themselves there is a mass of blue permanence,
that below the surface tension of water
there are escapees from our squinting.
I tell them to wait for their bodies to break
the susurrating gossip of the sea.
Then, punching vapour over the rail
of the wavering horizon
filament fists scatter in the offshore breeze.
We see their slick nodes heading south,
sounding sinus clicks,
lobtailing their flukes like petals.
I point to the whales clapping the drum of the world.
But all my children can say is that they’re cold
and ask when they can go inside.
1 August 2017