Swimming towards sunset

The water’s surface shimmers
late this summer afternoon.
Cicadas irritate the atmosphere
as if it were not quite sufficient
to sit beneath the sun, awaiting
dusk then nightfall and the rest.

Not quite a mill pond, the bay
entices you to swim without a suit,
abandoning your dress and bag
to my safe-keeping on the shore
where two or three or maybe more
old regulars take time to talk;
to share the daily news perhaps
of who did what to whom and when
- and maybe even make a stab
at why - between their showers
and callisthenics in the park
where dogs, unleashed, chase tails.

I sit and watch your head cut through
the silvered skin of Watson’s Bay,
that youthful grin upon your face,
as if this place and time with me
were more than you had hoped for,
were maybe all you wanted on this day.