the fisherman’s daughter

she appeared out of nowhere in front of my eyes.
i watched in disbelief as she, wrapped in a bath towel,
vigorously walked down the stone ramp to the beach.
young, full of life, she seemed completely unaffected
by the cold of mid-november, when i stood leaning
against the railing at the end of the promenade,
tucked into my thick winter jacket and a woollen cap.

having reached the damp sand, she dropped the towel
with an unforced naturalness, as if carved by the hand
of michelangelo, and walked calmly into the water,
something i would not be surprised at by the adriatic sea
in the middle of summer but not by the north sea
in late autumn. and as i admired her amid the waves,
i mourned the moment she would eventually disappear

between the stone walls of fittie.