How the Day Grows

the day grows
slowly
she is in no hurry.

the ocean heaves
and waits
on the fringes,
caught in a timeless web,
a golden disc
throws herself
into an emptiness
that changes colours
like silk scarves
on a young woman,
little boxes of concrete
pretend to stand still
and emotionless
in an unfaltering line,
ripples skip along
first one way
and then the other,
choreographing
their own little dance
with the tides,
doors, pots and pans
bang and clang,
sharp voices
and distant honks
catch each other
hurriedly,
too noisy to hide
the busyness
and restfulness
of a growing day,
dying surely
to a seamless night,

and I,
I find myself
in a moment
scattered
here and there,
between arrivals,
and departures,
just being,
becoming,
a pause.