The angler, taken

in isolation,

waits in preparatory

study, his rod cast

 

out and off the edge

of the tall tide, which

nearly banks the sky.

The brown of the grass

 

seems to climb station

and cloaks his closed frame

in an ascending

glow of rust. The scene

 

is not new. The wax

waves have come away

from their backing strokes,

seeping a tooth-white

 

sail from the corner.

Waning, the sun sinks

a baseless column.

 

But somehow in all this,

as all this is shaken

like a globe, dipped afresh

with the nips of glances,

 

Sunday afternoon

on the island draws

out and sooner still.

 

The fish take their time

and the angler wears no watch. ∎

 

Words by Bora Rex. Art by Lottie Hassan.