Oban –
uttered on the bay – cast to the cresting tidal swell.

The ferry rests,
snug against the seawall,
moored lines lashed – unmoving.

A draught from the hills pours over the rocks and ruffles the sea’s belly.
Kelp waves ascendant, rise under the emerald veneer, a maiden beckoning.

Water holds sway, an ocean of air rises and falls, wearing mountains to hills, to rock –
washed and cleansed.

Along the esplanade, hotels.
Roses nod under bay windows over slate walls that address the cove.
They give voice to a time when southerly breezes
urged ships across the firth, progress subject to nature’s way.

Clouds shuttle overhead and whisper of a bright day foretold
by the quartered moon cradled in the west.

Coffee in a porcelain cup halts its journey lipward,
interrupted by the eye caught in the flash of gull wings that wheel and soar over sparkled water.

An old couple greet one another on the quay.
She sits on a bench, her gray coat matches the color of her wispy hair.
Cane in hand, the old man steps, stumbles, and sits. He leans forward and gently kisses her forehead.
They rise unsteadily, caressed by one another’s attentions,
hold hands and walk toward the pub.

And when the moon returns in autumn,
in fullness days hence, it illuminates a new path dimly trodden by gentle white light.

As always – the moment is savored, quickened by time’s flight.

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