At the Quay

The water is still.

Not completely.
A small movement near the edge
where it touches the stone.

A boat is tied there.
Rope pulled tight,
then slack again
with each shift.

No one on it.

The mast draws a line upward.
Nothing follows it.

Across the bay
the hills are dark with trees.
You don’t look at them long.
They stay the same whether you do or not.

A chair scrapes somewhere behind you.
Then quiet again.

You sit on the stone.

It’s warm from the day.
Your hand stays there
a moment longer than needed.

You’ve been in other places.
You remember noise,
the press of people,
having to decide where to go next.

Here there is nothing to decide.

A small wave comes in,
touches the edge,
withdraws.

No pattern you can follow.
Still, it repeats.

Someone walks past.
Doesn’t stop.

The light begins to lower.
Not noticeably.
But enough.

You remain where you are.

For now
this is where you are kept.