Spun a thread of dust,
Caught a whiff of the sea.
Shadows of a canyon at dusk,
Bleeds into day-old tea.

A tapestry of bereavements,
Beached ashore a gulf,
Its waves, tepid and rough,
Rippled the sun, it reflects.

Aged wood, floating, covered in cloth,
Pushed to touch horizons, wet and vast.
Aimed to dissolve with the setting sun,
Steered by the stars he used to follow.