If you think the white sands would give way

To the feet on the conch shells

Or the oysters have a trifling chance

Among the weeds and the corals

The tides are rising and the brim of the boat

Wakes to the mixed sanity of options

To bequeath, to turn, to rewind


There is a tiny speck of rock on the horizon

where the sun left a vacant spot

If the world must turn it must

In the burping winds and the leading sails

North of direction or West of my sleeping wisdom

Mooring in the lands with lashes from my dreams


I am about to float like a fish with wings

As if the tail is splashing its last wish

And it is mindful that in a sea of survival

There is still an island

That is constantly growing

And fading in the wind

As the remnant of whatever it stood for


Phuket, 22nd July

The tides are rising

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