And as Sol dips beneath the horizon,
we see the absence stretch before us.
Great nets cast outward,
the sudden shade cooling our
burning panels,
grains that flow between toe
dull their golden shines.
Our parasol adding, it folds away
and we rise groggily.
Lapping to our front
being our only audio,
we pack in silence,
cooked to perfection.
Holidays never approach
the length we wish,
yet these staccato gaps
endeavour to fulfil
our healing.
Grasp those times, fleeting
as they may be, for a life
full of labour is none
the meaning.