Apocryphal sun

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At dawn my sun is apocryphal, it’s earliest light a gash on the sea. I capture the gash but not the sun now too bright for my camera’s eye.

Some times the sun is a painful boil on the body poetic. At other times it is a low hanging fruit , tempting to pluck but there is a sea wall in between. Like boy Icarus my camera ascends and burns its waxen wings. It has such a pitiful fall while the ploughing farmer watches nonchalantly. Even its splash does not scare the crows.

The crows are disappointed that the turtle hatching season is over. They had such a magnificent season of turtle deaths, all these days!

At dawn, sun is apocryphal
Its light a mere gash on sea.

Night’s crows turn less dark
With rocks more glistening.

Men look made up in boats,
Bodiless actors in a drama.

They stand in heart of light
Stealing the light from fish.

On days sun is painful boil,
On blue sea’s flawless skin.

 

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