Clouds in an Empty Sky
It has been like this for hours.
I am sitting on the harbour, the dock of the bay, resting my back against the crumbling concrete wall on the side that, facing the sea, looks east. When the sun is hidden there is little difference between the sky and the sea. The grey and white light lays down a sheen onto the motionless sea like polish on a steel tabletop. The passage of an undercurrent is highlighted on the surface by insipid veins of silver, which at times glisten, at others not as the clouds passing above lose or gain their transparency.
As above, so below.
Nothing, but the wind, is still. Like a thread drawn taut across the sky only the horizon is steady.
The pulse and rhythm of the sea and the sky are the same, and it is impossible to say which is an echo of one and which a reflection of the other.
So it is within my self.
It carries the same pulse, the same rhythm as the season, the hour and the flux and reflux of the tide.
And the same consequences.
The surface of the sea is a mirror of my inner movements. A mirror that reflects the image of self.
As without, so within.