Not Sloth

I fell into a trap at dawn.

East, the sun

lit the sea awash

and I looked for, longed for, ached for, rest.

 

Stepping into this trap

I laid up

but knew, deep down, that ink can run

letters form, words rhyme, there’s no time

 

and I saw a white sheet

hanging on a line

pulling moisture from the sun

and sizzling waves;

loosening fibres, softening edges:

ready for work.