The writing isn’t always on some wall

My spine pressed to the trunk
naked limbs above me seem
so many baby scribbles –
dark charcoal pencil on dove gray
now that the sun has gone away.

I’ve moved back from the cliff edge
where, looking down, lines of surf
appeared to my weary eyes
successive signatures
in arabic script –
white calligraphy
on washed-out Persian blue.

.

.

 

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