sunday at the bay

the incline
is such that you lean into
the cool air.
eyes down.
a slight wind curling
around
your wrists.
you wipe your brow
at the top of hill
where you can see the bay,
the ships sway gently
on a deep blue pasture
of waves
the white sails
full
forcing the hulls
to move away from
shore, from side to side
between the arms
of sandy hills, but
going nowhere really.
it's sunday.
you won't go further
than this, not today.
it would remind you too
much of other days,
other sundays
when you lifted, with her,
the cupped shells,
white and brown
along the shore and held
them to your ears.