Festival

This is gray.
Mist where the sea meets sky,
overcast, the day
tangled in wind where your yellow hair
is blown, twists in the mind.

No sun. Yet the day
was racing on, the markers bobbing
orange on the surge, the oarsmen struggled
toward win or place. We paced ourselves
to the end of the pier, taking our time
where you patted the back of a tiny shark
that didn’t bite; we talked to a boy
who made one silver fish
rise at the end of his line.

Later we stopped for tea and toast
you said you didn’t want,
then said you didn’t care.
You ate a lot.

Sweet on roof of the mouth
with the sweetness of olives and wheat,
smooth on the tongue, this withered day
turns in the wind of your yellow hair,
gold in the mind where the sands run down.
And not to care
is young.